


Echoes of the Lost Voice

by JonTheNord



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insanity, Interracial Relationship, Magic-Users, Murder Mystery, Pederasty, Politics, Prophecy, Religious Fanaticism, Revenge, Sadism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 253,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4593555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonTheNord/pseuds/JonTheNord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Dragon Crisis never happened? Years after its bloody civil war, the province of Skyrim, ruled by a headstrong High Queen and riddled with widespread lawlesness, is a far cry from harmony. And now a new threat is on the rise—but from where, exactly, is anybody's guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Prisoner

" _Legends don't burn down villages"_ —Ulfric Stormcloak

These walls were no strangers to screams, though with the fathoms of solid rock enfolding the dungeon, they were the last ones to ever hear them. Not that the prisoner was doing much screaming anymore; his vocal cords had become as useless to him as his tongue was.

He looked around, though not actually expecting to see anything. Out there nothing had changed, never did change. Throughout the eternity of pain and desecration that stood between now and the time unimaginable when he'd been the man he once was, everything remained just so. But in the other word, the one within his mind—the only place they could never touch—things shifted and moved. Possibilities, ideas, plans. It was impossible to tell through the broken and anguished husk of his fleshly coil, but inside his world was ripe with activity.

And through the rippling, oscillating matter of his mind, through the eternally pulsating—expanding and contracting—darkness of the Void it was connected to, there was the familiar voice. Echoing through the untold depths of the Mind, coming from everywhere all at once but slowly concentrating, taking shape. The voice, the seductive whisper, was calling to him. The sweetest, most frightening voice in all existence, or outside of it.

It was _her_.

" _I will rise_."

The prisoner lifted his head towards the mildewed ceiling and opened his chafed, cracked lips. "Yes!" he whispered, the sound emerging from his parched throat but a rasp.

More words came, undecipherable but as sweet as any balm to his ears. Then some that made sense again.

" _They will know my wrath_."

A tremor went though his mangled body, as ecstatic as it was agonizing. He felt life ignite within his filthy loincloth. He had to admit he was surprised anything still worked down there.

More cacophony, like the wordless, primordial Voice that had created reality itself. Amorphous, pure intention: unadulterated meaning before it lend itself to any verbal form. Amid the rush and roar, then, words of familiar significance.

" . . . _power . . . piles and piles of bones_."

They never changed, the words; the prisoner could move his lips with them, repeating each one. He longed to hear them again and again. The promise they contained—of redemption, of the cataclysmic changes to come. The promise of unparalleled suffering. Of—

" _Revenge!_ "

Yes! Yes! That, more than anything, was what the Prisoner wanted. For the longest time he'd lost all hope, gotten beyond thinking it could ever be his. Stopped dreaming. But now, now . . .

" _They will quiver at the sound of my voice_."

"They will!"

Just like he did now, so would they all.

The voice got louder, more intense. The hatred, the indescribable wrath in it, was frightening to bear witness to.

" _THEIR CITIES WILL BURN DOWN . ._. "

"Down!" the Prisoner repeated.

" _ALL BOW BEFORE ME!_ "

" _I_ will!I _will_!"

He would be her most loyal servant. He would do anything to serve that voice, anything to please it. Kill anyone. Torture the whole word. Slaughter them one and all.

He would follow the voice's commands.

He knew what he had to do now. _She_ had told him. She would guide him, get him out of his state of degradation. He would serve her, and she would reward him for it. Her return would be _his_ return. Her world would be his world. Tomorrow would be theirs.

All he would need was patience. And to do what he was told.

The prisoner's split lips spread into a smile, and a tortured cackle erupted from his ruptured throat.

The true storm was about to come.


	2. The Khajiit Thief

She closed her eyes and breathed as quietly as she could, while the steps kept coming closer.

"Anyone up there?" asked the gruff voice from the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm on it!" snapped the other one, then added with a mutter, "Fool, takes me for a damn seer."

Shadya squeezed her right paw into a tight fist in front of her muzzle. She could feel the claws itching to come out, felt the instinct to attack—to go straight for the soft, vulnerable flesh in the neck, in the eyes. To protect herself; to kill, if need be.

In her left paw she squeezed the embellished hilt of the strange dagger. It felt wrong. Like most of her kind, she'd never quite gotten the hang of fighting with Mannish and Merish weapons. Seemed impersonal, somehow. Why use an external tool when Azurah in her wisdom had seen it fit to equip you with natural weapons of your very own?

The crunch of sand underneath the heel of the approaching man's boot quickened her heartbeat. In her mind's eye she was already tearing out his throat. She could do it, no doubt, but do it carelessly and raise an alarm, and escaping the manor would just become that much more difficult.

She slowed down her breathing, felt about in the recesses of her body and mind, connected with the residue of Skooma still running in her veins, could still feel its calming effect. A little tweak, almost a quasi-conscious act of manipulating her circulatory system, and the effect of the blessed substance was felt once more. Her heartbeat slowed down, the trepidation subsided.

Shadya opened her eyes, feeling considerably calmer. She took the short bladed weapon in her hand and stuffed it into her knapsack. The thing, her loot, would do her no favors here.

The man was now right behind the wall she was pressed against. He halted there. She could sense his warmth, feel the beating of his heart. His musky, unbathed scent in her nose was as clear as day. A very rotten day, at that. His breath was hard and raspy, smelling of brandy.

She held her breath, as the man moved again. The fist still in front her face slowly unclenched. The man moved into the doorway, blocking the light. Right next to her now, she was looking at his large-nosed profile. Her claws inched out, and she cocked the paw back. A wrong move, a turn of the head in her direction so that he saw her there, and it would be the last thing his eyes ever registered.

Shadya tensed up her body, prepared for it. She could feel her tail trying to start wagging like it had a will of its own, but she kept it under control.

The man sniffed in contempt. "Bullcrap!" he grunted. "There's no one here." Then he spun around—toward his left, thank Rajhin!—and started to walk back.

Shadya slowly let out a breath of relief, retracting her claws. The end of her tail fell on the floor behind her, relaxed.

Immediately after, a thought took form within her galvanized mind. She sprung out of the room and ran after the man.

Her feet themselves made no sound delectable by average human ears. She didn't have any footwear on, and her paws on the floorboards were smooth like velvet on velvet. What little sound there was from the groaning of the boards was drowned out by the noise from the man's walking.

Incredibly clamorous creatures they were!

She was quick on her paws, and soon was right at the man's heels. He remained totally clueless to her presence. She felt the tingle of satisfaction as her eyes picked up what she was hoping to see. A key chain, hanging on the man's belt. A large ring holding keys of varying sizes.

Adjusting the rhythm of her steps with the man's, she reached out her hand. The keys were swaying back and forth as he walked. Shadya stuck her finger through the ring just as they were swinging back, and gave a quick pluck. The chain came right off. She halted in her tracks.

And after two more steps, so did the man.

Even with the skooma, Shadya's heart took a dash. She held her breath, everything around her grinding down to slow motion. The keys were lazily swinging to and fro on the tip of her index finger.

The guard turned his head a touch, frowning, like he'd heard some noise. It hadn't been any of _her_ making, for sure.

For a few seconds it looked as if he was about to turn around.

Shadya tensed her fingers.

_Don't do it!_

Then the man blew air out of his nostrils and shrugged. He went on, started to walk down the stairs, oblivious and keyless.

Shadya stood there frozen in place for a heartbeat or two longer. When she'd gotten confirmation that the man wasn't going to arrive at a belayed realization of something being off, she spun around and dashed back into the room, closing the door after her.

The room was almost completely dark with curtains pulled in front of its one small window, but her feline vision, supported by the dim light from the hallway leaking through cracks in the door, was all she needed to work with. She cocked her head to look up to the hatch in the ceiling, sprung up with a smooth motion of the balls of her paws and seized the handle. Hanging there, she fiddled with the key chain. Of the five keys of varying size, she guessed the largest one went in the lock. So she fitted it in.

A match.

She'd just been in the process of trying to pick the lock when they'd come looking. Lucky that they had, for it had turned out the lock was unpickable and could only be opened with a key. Some locks just were like that.

She pulled down the trap door, unfolded the ladder attached to it. She tiptoed up the steps, then quietly pulled in the ladder and closed the door. It would probably not take forever for the man to notice his missing keys, and by then she should be gone.

The attic was dark also, only the moonlight bleeding through the small slits of windows lining the upper part of the rounded walls. But very soon Shadya's eyes adjusted, and she could see that the room was very sparsely furnished: a single bed, a small table and chairs, a low shelf.

Those things held no interest for her.

But then she noticed the chest by the bed, and an anticipatory smile tugged at the corners of her lips. From a small cub she'd loved surprises. Getting her hands on the object she was after in the first place was one thing, but the little bonuses, the uncalculated discoveries on the way—those were what really made her line of work worth the trouble.

She tiptoed by the chest and knelt down. The fact that the room was only openable with a key may just have meant there was something here they thought especially worth safekeeping. And the fact that even the dagger—the thing she'd come here for in the first place—had despite its obvious worth been behind just a simple lock of a drawer, made this moment all the more titillating.

Shadya guessed correctly that the same key that opened the door also fit the chest. She turned the key in the hole, heard the click, and held her breath. Only a very small part of her felt a bit childish for being so giddy, but feeling guilt for having fun was a vice of the so-called "civilized races", and one about which she could care less.

And so, like a child opening up a present, she yanked up the lid, ready to be delighted.

But was not.

The chest was empty.

Well, empty in a relative sense, for it seemed to lack absolutely anything of value. Nothing but a bunch of dusty books piled on top of each other.

A little hope flickered in her heart, then, that maybe something valuable had been hidden between the pages. But upon riffling through a dozen of them, no luck. Just words, words, words. And as anyone living or working in the underworld, she had a deep distrust for those.

Another wishful thought crossed her mind: maybe these were some valuable collectibles. Yet a brief scan through the spines reveled nothing hope-provoking. Very common titles every single one. Not that she'd ever been a bookworm herself, but the titles here were pretty much guaranteed to be riddling the collections of any crusty old bore.

Shadya sighed and closed the lid.

_Now, this was certainly anticlimactic._

"Disappointed, are we?"

She was badly startled, and her claws had already sprung up by the time she'd whipped around.

At first she didn't see anything: no guards, and the trap door was still closed. Then her eyes caught a dark form in the corner. A small and slight, somewhat bent figure dressed in a cowled black robe stood by the table and chairs. Where had it come from? Shadya could swear she'd seen no one, and her eye didn't generally miss a detail.

She got into a fighting stance, and shook her revealed claws at the figure, who just stood there.

"Who are you?" she hissed. "Where'd you come from?"

A strange creaking sound escaped the person-shaped shadow. Took a moment for Shadya to identify it as laughter. There wasn't much humor in it.

"Who am _I_?" the figure replied with the voice of an old woman, sounding amused. "No, young lady. I believe the correct question to be: who are _you_?"

Shadya swallowed, prepared herself for action, even though the apparition showed no obvious aggression.

"Don't worry," the figure said then, somewhat softer, "you don't need to tell me."

Shadya was still in her fighting stance, though she was starting to feel uncertain, not knowing where to go from there.

As if reading her thoughts, the cowled figure cocked her head and said, "You can put those down now, dear."

She accentuated her message by lifting her hand with its palm turned down, slowly bringing it down.

A powerful urge to comply overtook Shadya: a warm calm assuring her that there was no threat; that everything was alright. So she did as told, despite a tiny, nearly inaudible, voice in the back of her head screaming at her not to.

"That's a good lass," the woman crooned. "Now, what've you got there, hmm?"

Shadya's face turned down to her satchel. The dagger. Suddenly the bag felt very heavy on her shoulder.

_It's sorcery of some kind!_ the alarmed voice said. It was a bit louder now, though did still seem to be coming for somewhere far, far away. Somewhere not all that important.

"That's right," the woman confirmed. "A little treasure, maybe?" She gave a warm laugh at Shadya standing there dumbly. "Tell you what: you just go ahead and keep that."

Shadya's head shot up. "Really?" she asked, quite despite herself. She felt like a child caught stealing a honey roll, who then got told she could eat it, after all.

The woman laughed again. "Yes, really. You deserve it for your efforts. I know you were expecting to hit it big time climbing up here. But I'm afraid there's nothing more exciting up here than those books you were looking at. I hate to disappoint you." She nodded her head, as if approving. "You're a very talented girl; I can see that. You wear the shadows well, as they say."

She made a sudden movement, lifting her hands, and Shadya tensed up.

The woman chuckled. "Don't be afraid, child." She grasped the edges of her cowl and peeled it back.

Shadya was almost surprised when she saw the face. It looked to belong to a Bosmer, a wood elf, and there was really nothing special about it, just the typical Merish features on a kindly looking old woman. She looked to be somewhere around her mid to late sixties.

Why was Shadya surprised then? Somehow she'd just expected something . . . _more_.

The woman wore a friendly smile on her rugose, hawk-nosed countenance. "There, now—is that better?"

Shadya didn't say anything.

The old woman nodded slowly. "You're cautious. That's good. I like that." She took a step closer and looked deeply at Shadya, seeming to see all the way into her soul with those deep turquoise eyes of hers, in them a knowing glint. She stopped, smiling, and cocked her head a touch. "Now, if you'll just remember to be as protective of your heart as you are of your person, you should be just fine."

Shadya frowned at the woman's odd words, but still said nothing.

The woman nodded again. "Not the talkative type, eh?" She turned around to sit on one of the two chairs. "Well, have it your way."

Once sitting down, she draped one arm on the backrest and locked Shadya's gaze anew. "You can still keep it, though."

The dagger, she meant. Instinctively, Shadya pressed her paw against her bag.

"It's much older than you'd know," the old woman said with an oblique smile. "I'd say to take good care of it." She paused. "But then I know you're just going to sell it."

For a passing split second, Shadya felt as if her mind was being scoped, her intentions, plans and ideas all in plain view. She felt naked, and she frowned deeply, trying to somehow shield her mind.

The woman gave a dry laugh. "Oh, that's quite all right. We've all got to eat, don't we?" Then she narrowed her eyes—still smiling, but no longer in an entirely friendly fashion. "Just make sure you don't end up being the main course, hmm?"

Shadya was starting to feel increasingly ill at ease. Even though the old woman had so far shown nothing but friendliness, there was something about her that didn't feel altogether right. Something that made Shadya want to dash out, and be as far from here as possible, _as soon_ as possible.

The woman, as if reading her mind—and in truth Shadya was actually not at all sure she _wasn't_ —laughed again.

"Oh I'm sorry! I don't mean to scare you. There, now," she motioned toward the still closed hatch. "Don't let me hold you back, dear, you've got somewhere you need to be."

When Shadya's eyes flicked suspiciously between the hatch and the woman, it provoked a roll of those turquoise eyes.

"Just as I said, I won't stop you," the woman said. "Though the gentlemen downstairs no doubt will try. So I wouldn't dally needlessly."

After a blink's worth of hesitation, Shadya moved. The woman's eyes followed placidly as she passed her, but said nothing. It wasn't until Shadya had opened the trap door that she spoke again.

"Just remember," she said, then held a short pause as if preparing a recital. " _Be good to the shadow, and the shadow will be good to you_."

After initially all but ignoring the woman's words, Shadya froze.

What the woman had said, she'd of course recognized. It was an ancient Khajiit saying, even if in the generally repeated version it was " _your_ shadow" rather than " _the_ shadow". And since the oldest forms of Ta'agra, the Khajiit language, had contained no plurals, the word might in this context be best translated as shadow _s_.

Still, however you looked at it, it was just an empty platitude, through and through.

But it wasn't the saying itself that had stopped Shadya cold. No, the small detail she'd nearly missed was that the woman hadn't spoken it in Tamrielic at all, but in perfect Ta'agra, if in that peculiarly archaic dialect at that. But she'd never before heard anyone non-Khajiit pronounce the language so cleanly

She turned around, and glared at the woman who was now looking more than a little self-satisfied.

"So you know some of my language," she said, hardening her voice the best she could for all of her unease. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

The woman did not appear affronted, but rather amused. "And who's to say it's _your_ language?" she replied. "Perhaps it's _my_ language, also."

It took Shadya a second of confused frowning before the words and their implication connected in her head. Then her eyes went wide. She looked at the woman in a somewhat altered light, saw those Elven features differently. What she'd taken as typically Bosmer characteristics now seemed to shift right in front of her eyes. The slanted shape of those large, peculiar-colored eyes, the high cheekbones . . . now that she studied it all, she could see it as less Merish and more . . . bestial. Feline.

She squinted at the woman. Was she looking at an _Ohmes_? To her knowledge, not many, if indeed anyone, had seen one of their kind outside of Elsweyr in a good long while, perhaps in as long as hundreds of years. She'd never seen one, as she—as a member of a free, travelling clan—had never actually been to her own native land.

Of course, even if she _had_ seen one, she would not necessarily know it, for—having been born at the time when the new phase of Masser matched the full phase of Secunda—of all breeds of Khajiit they least resembled cats. Lacking the fur, the tail, and the claws, they were naturally pretty much indistinguishable from the Bosmer.

The woman's smile spread wider, more sly. "That's right," she said. "So often it is that we see only what we expect to see. What we want to see."

She lifted her chin, and like all her moves in Shadya's eyes now, it was somehow so very cat-like. "Well, I'd advise you, Shadya of Da'kheavek, to keep those eyes open—to look not only where you're going, but where you're coming from as well. It may be the only way to save yourself."

Shadya blinked, her mouth coming open. "How do you—" _K_ _now my name_ , was what she wanted to say, but the words became stuck in her throat.

The old woman said nothing further but just sat there smiling, studying Shadya who just stood there with her mouth open.

Shadya was getting close to finding her bearings again when her ears picked up a noise from downstairs. An alarmed recollection shot through her then, and she felt all her hairs prick up. The key. The guard must have noticed it missing and was on his way back! There was banging, like footsteps, and there was talking; two animated voices, something like harsh words being exchanged. She cocked her ear, and to some relief deciphered that the commotion was still in the lowest story. But she knew it would not last for much longer, that they would be coming up soon, and that she'd better be gone by the time they did. Her eyes went back to the Ohmes, who had not budged.

The old female raised her thin brows. "Best you be going, then."

But, despite itching to, Shadya did not move. She had the sort of wrong feeling that just begged for clarification. There was no way this . . . _thing_ should have known her personal name, let alone the name of her tribe.

But no words came to her mind. She felt so powerless, so frustrated.

And then the noises were getting closer. The creaking of stairs. Unhurried, heavy steps.

Her head whipped toward the downstairs room, then back to the old Ohmes.

The old female was still smiling. "Go," she mouthed. The gleam in her eyes was now nearing on malicious. " _Now_!"

This time Shadya didn't need to be told twice. She bolted down the ladder, skipping the last steps and just grabbing the side rail and swinging herself behind them. She ran toward the curtained window, but once she got to it, stopped.

She'd gone straight to her escape without regard for the ladder still hanging out, the trap door gaping open. But if they saw that, they would know someone had been here. They might have words with the woman—if they indeed even _knew_ about her—and she might give Shadya away. Closing the door might just buy her the extra time she needed.

So she turned back, starting toward it. But, to her surprise and apparently without anyone's touch, the steps folded back up, and behind them the hatch slammed shut with a bang.

Shadya stared after it a dumbfounded moment, but then her attention went back to the sound of boots stomping on the wooden floor. Two pairs of them, coming ever closer.

"Did you hear something?" a muffled voice said.

The door to the room was still closed. It had kept them from hearing the noise clearly, but then it had been open before. The other guard might still remember that.

Shadya turned on her heel, had within seconds opened the window and climbed onto the narrow stony windowsill outside. The sulfuric air of Hjaalmarch greeted her, but at the moment even the normally noxious fumes in her face felt like a breath of fresh air. She quietly closed the window behind her, then took a hold of the stone under her toes and flung her legs over the emptiness.

Halfway down the one-story drop she spun around. She was running as soon as she hit the ground, her bare feet beating the slushy, muddy turf. Taking to southeast, she was constantly stealing glances over her shoulder for the first hundred paces or so. Then she faced ahead, pressing her head down.

There might have been no one following, but she still ran as fast as her legs could take her.

 


	3. The Scholar

 

_"Don't forget: Skyrim is teeming with bandits and outlaws. Just stay out of harm's way and_ under no circumstance _run unnecessary risks!"_

Thinking about the advice Plitinius Ceno, the deputy principal of the Scholar's Guild of Tamriel, had given to Ariela as she'd been taking her leave, did nothing to diminish the profound and thorough annoyance she was experiencing right now. Mistakes had been made, sure enough. Unfortunately, though, there was no question of who was to blame, and the finger was pointing at the person wearing her breeches.

Well, at least _was_ still wearing them.

She kept her breathing steady and her eyes closed and just lay there, listening to the hiss of a torch above her head, to the crackling of burning wood close by, and to the faint purl of flowing water somewhere in the distance, echoing off the walls of the cavern.

_So stupid!_ she thought.

She quietly wriggled her arms, pinned uncomfortably between her and the cold rocky ground she'd been left lying on. The coarse rope tying her wrists together chafed painfully against her delicate skin—a scholar's hide, accustomed to a life indoors and not to the wear and tear of the out-and-about life of adventure.

And most certainly not to captivity in the hands of a gang of thieves and murderers.

But then, as a woman of science, Ariela had a little insight into how things didn't always go according to plan. A failed experiment here, a novel piece of evidence tumbling down entire hundreds-of-years-old traditions of theory in a single stroke there. The way it was, the more one knew the better one also saw how little one understood.

Nevertheless, to be sure, at the moment she would have traded all her precious knowledge and all the understanding in the world for a good, sharp blade.

Yes, that and preferably somebody else to wield it for her. For even were it not for her current immobilized state, she was the first to admit that when it came to swordplay, she was no match for . . . well, absolutely anyone. And she felt fairly sure the thugs that were holding her now were not a pack of anyones.

Ariela's behind was slowly falling into an insensate state. She tried to surreptitiously wiggle into a more comfortable position, while still maintaining an appearance of unconsciousness. But lying on the hard rock floor, with her wrists and ankles tied, she wasn't having an easy time of it. If was all she could do not to obviously manifest her awoken status.

A shuffling sound of footsteps carried from the heart of the cavern, a few feet to her right. Ariela cracked open one eye, and turned her head just enough to see a large figure pacing back and forth. There was a quiet murmur, the voice of a man seemingly mumbling to himself. She couldn't make out any words, and she guessed she was the better for it.

Then the reality of the situation hit Ariela once again.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

She could just _not_ believe how incredibly unthinking and naive she had been. Barely a couple hours in Skyrim, and this is where it had landed her. It was nobody's fault but her own.

Well, almost nobody's.

She had left the premises of the Scholar's Guild in Cyrodiil a couple days back, safely in the company of a band of Khajiit merchants. Even during the perilous journey through the mountains she had felt perfectly safe, knowing that the Khajiit had capable warriors and mages in their numbers. Amazingly enough, they hadn't met anything too dangerous the entire way, although Ariela suspected that they had just been lucky.

In addition to the Khajiit and Ariela, a man from Cyrodiil by the name of Ramiianus Rato had also been traveling with the band, and had immediately seemed to take a liking to Ariela. That feeling, however, had been firmly one-sided. He'd talked way too much, had had an array of nervous ticks for a personality, and had all in all acted in a manner that had just made her plain nervous. He'd also kept staring at Ariela's chest when talking to her, regardless of there not being much to ogle at in the first place.

She hadn't sensed any threat from him, however, and had judged him to be basically harmless.

Then, when the fellowship had finally arrived in Skyrim, Ramiianus had volunteered to see Ariela safely to Riften, where she could rent a carriage to take her to her final destination, Winterhold. The Khajiit caravan was on its way to Windhelm, and with them already being a little late on their schedule and with Ariela's slow pace as an unaccustomed traveler, it had felt like a good idea to let them go on ahead and take Ramiianus up on his offer. In addition he's had a good blade on him and had seemed proficient in its use. So Ariela had agreed.

That weaselly little man with those shifty eyes. She might have known!

On their walk towards Riften, Ramiianus had constantly been peeking around, as if expecting to find someone following them. Ariela had simply filed that under the man's peculiar nature, but then she'd heard the sounds from behind: hurried hooves, the chinking of spurs and armor.

The next thing she knew, they had been surrounded.

It had been a gang of five: four males and one female. Everything had happened so fast and left Ariela paralyzed with terror. A big Orc, obviously their leader, had addressed Ramiianus by name, and she'd felt a terrible cold as she'd realized they knew each other. She'd gone completely numb, then, once it had hit her what exactly she was witnessing: the leader laying a sack of coin in Ramiianus' hand. Ramiianus looking at her, smiling in almost an apologetic way, taking a glance at her chest. Then turning to leave.

She had been crossed. Worse— _sold!_

There had been the shock of pain in the back of her head, then darkness.

And this was where she'd come to.

She'd been awake for a while now and no one had come to check on her. This had given her some time to think—to take it all in.

But she still couldn't quite comprehend what had happened. She had already moved on from numbness, went through sheer horror, to arrive at a mix of dread and frustration. She couldn't stop mulling over and over the miserable situation she found herself in; how she should have done things differently, how she should have never trusted a stranger—and one so _particularly_ strange at that.

But it was no use. It wouldn't change anything. She could do nothing at the moment but just lay there.

She tried to coax her mind into thinking more constructively.

Her body, however, betrayed her. A delicious smell of food carried by a draft of stale air found its way to her nostrils and—coupled with the faint sizzling and gurgling sound of something boiling in a cauldron on top of a cooking spit—made her stomach growl. How long had it been since she'd had a bite to eat?

Somehow, though, she guessed there wasn't much of a chance of her being treated like a dinner-guest. They hadn't even had the courtesy to place her by the fire where she could've at least been warm. Instead they had all but abandoned her by the back wall of the cavern a few feet away, as if not to take up any more of their resources than was absolutely necessary.

Still, it was not far enough to not be tormented by the aroma of their cuisine.

At least the utter lack of interest they had showed her had so far played for her favor. A young female in her situation should probably be glad to invoke as little attention as possible. And who knew— maybe she'd even get out of this without a scratch, if she just kept quiet—

But no—her accursed knowledge betrayed her. She knew better. A woman in her position was more than likely far from safe. Even if she somehow managed to convince her captors of a plentiful bounty should she be released unharmed, she was _still_ likely to be beaten, raped, or killed. Quite possibly all of the above.

Bandits were not exactly known for playing by the rules.

Besides, she could recall at least one of the gang-members giving her a look bespeaking a hunger for . . . unsavory pleasures.

Suddenly she felt the feeling of panic start to creep back up on her. She figured that to have even a remote chance of coming out of this unharmed, she had to keep her focus. She had to do _something_.

So, after a moment of gathering strength and will-power, Ariela took a deep breath, twisted her torso up from the ground and pulled herself in to a sitting position. She tried to look for something—anything—she could use to her advantage.

The cavern was about as uncozy as she might have expected—dim, damp, and chilly. It was roughly five hundred feet across, with a high ceiling of maybe about thirty feet. To her right the ground ascended to form a ramp, growing into a wide shelf. A wooden walkway had been built on it, though what had doubtless been years of use had left it partly buried under dirt and gravel.

At the opposite wall from her, Ariela could see a cavity with the flickering light of a burning torch. She guessed that one to be the exit. That's where she'd need to get, somehow.

A second shelf rose to the left of her. There was a niche in it that was so evenly angled it looked as if carved by hand, and there was a campsite set up in the cranny. A hearthfire fueled by hefty logs roared in the midst of a large, rectangular fire pit. Two sleeping mats lay on either of it. The cooking spit was filled to the brim with an orangish gruel of some sort, and despite being quite unappetizing in appearance, it smelled heavenly.

Behind the fire pit, next to the wall, lay piles of firewood. Next to them was a chopping block and an axe. Closest to Ariela was a table filled with wine bottles and random-looking junk. Between the table and the firewood was a tanning rack. The leader of the bandits crouched in front of the rack. He had apparently quit his pacing and was now holding a big knife, using it to scrape at a hide laced onto the frame of the rack. His back was turned to Ariela.

It was a giant, ugly brute of an Orc with a particularly devastating looking warhammer sheathed on his muscular back. The muscles rippled under his skin as he moved the blade up and down the hide. He was, Ariela noted with some uneasiness, still talking to himself. He was close enough that Ariela might have been able to hear what he was mumbling, had she chosen to try.

She wondered if there was any way she could sneak away without alerting the soliloquizing bandit.

First she had to somehow cut her ropes, though. She looked around, but of course saw nothing to raise any hope. Not a single knife or axe left precariously laying around for her to find. Not even an appropriately sharp rock, though she doubted one of those would have done her much good.

Besides, even if she somehow managed to cut herself free and even sneak out without the Orc noticing, there were still the other bandits to think about. Doubtless they'd be waiting for her in the passageway or, at the latest, outside the exit.

Suddenly, as if he'd heard Ariela's thoughts or felt her eyes on his back, the Orc snapped his head around. He looked at the sitting up scholar and frowned, as if he'd just remembered her existence and was now trying to decide for what purpose she was there. She felt a chill.

Then the giant's eyes turned toward the fire, next to which Ariela's backpack was laying, tossed aside and forgotten. A look of recognition lit on the big creature's face, and he quickly stood up.  
He walked by Ariela's bag and grabbed it. He undid the ties with the look on his face of a man who'd struck on something immensely valuable—the gleam of greed and anticipation in his eyes. He threw back the flap, reached in and found . . .

A book.

Despite the fear, discomfort and—to an extent—growing anger, there was something in the Orc's dumbfounded look that nearly made Ariela smile. Holding in his hand a book—a copy of Justinius Poluhnius' short but all the more crucial, and _very_ rare, treatise _On Prophesy and The Elder Scrolls—_ he looked at it as if he'd never even seen such a thing. Ariela would not have been surprised if that indeed had been the case, but more likely it had simply not been the sort of loot he was expecting.

And, as he found out peeking in, there was more where that came from. Ariela's bag was filled with volume after volume of worn out tomes of varying thickness. Her only valued possessions.

The Orc gave her a look, and it was one of annoyance. As if she was playing some sort of dirty trick on him. But in all honesty, what did he expect, gold and diamonds? Nothing about her exactly screamed riches and treasure, what with her ragged, gray tunic with breeches to match, and her simple dark-brown hair that she always kept in a ponytail.

After what felt like a menacing moment, the Orc just shook his head and went ahead going through the bag anyway. He tossed aside _Darkest Darkness—The Annotated Edition,_ and with a thud it landed on the ground, dangerously close to the fire. Ariela couldn't help a frightened spasm, letting out a muffled whelp against her gag, seeing her prized treasures so carelessly treated.

The bandit paid no heed to her squirming, just picked up another book: _Retracing the Steps from_ _Atronach to Xivilai_ : _a Tractate on the Standard Classificatory Criterion for the Genera of the Creatures of Oblivion and Their Contemporary Critiques_ by Gualtierus the Wiser. He frowned at the title, then cracked the book open. He paged through it hurriedly, a perplexed look on his face, then slammed it shut and tossed that one aside too. He went for another.

What was he doing? If he was expecting anything valuable he was going to be sorely disappointed. There was nothing there to find but books, save for some articles of clothing crumpled at the bottom. Ariela's only valuables had been the modest amount of coin in the pouch she kept at her belt, but that they'd already taken from her.

What was more, it actually seemed like the Orc was inspecting the books for their contents, flipping through pages and studying the titles. It seemed bizarre he wouldn't simply pour out the contents of the bag onto the floor and after not finding anything worthwhile, just give up. Why was he so interested in her books?

Looking at him now, he all of a sudden didn't seem quite as threatening. To be sure, he was still a nasty sight with his bulging, sinewy muscles and his rough face strewn with scars, but the effort showing in his expression as he struggled to understand what he was looking at made him look more . . . well, _humane_ , for lack of a better world.

Oddly enough, Ariela almost felt pity for the creature. Poor dumb brute, was it his fault he had to resort to violence? He probably didn't have a friend in the world, and because of his limited intellectual capacity, had had to—

No! She caught herself. She would not let that happen, not let her soft heart make her forget the hatred she was now learning to feel. This beast was an enemy, a despicable violent monster who willed her nothing but harm. Dumb, sure, but still dangerous. She would not let him scare her senseless, but neither was she going to start feeling sympathy for him.

She would loathe him instead.

That shouldn't prove to be too hard, either. She thought about the first time she'd laid her eyes on him. She hadn't a clear idea how long she's been out of it, but it must have not been many hours ago. It had still been morning, and the slanted light of the ascending sun had gleamed off his armor. He'd seemed huge to her. She was accustomed to the company of Orcs, of course, and knew them generally to be quite large, but this one had looked like he would tower over any of the ones she'd met before.

He'd been talking to Rato like an old friend, laying a full pouch of coins in his hand. Then, after Rato had given her a one last look and turned his back to leave, she'd caught a murderous gleam in the Orc's eye. He'd produced a large dagger, sprung suddenly towards the departing man and sunk the knife in his back. Then he'd pulled it out and quickly slit the man's throat, afterwards looming over his twitching, dying form with a terrible, ferocious grin on his face. The memory of his laughter gave her the creeps, the sheer bloodlust and the twisted murderous pleasure in it.

For all she knew, they'd just left Ramiianus' body laying by the side of the road. Ariela couldn't be sure he'd earned anything better.

Still, the joy the Orc had taken out of the violence had left her deeply unsettled. Odd, then, how the fear she'd felt then had all but abandoned her now, being replaced by this jumble of feelings she had a hard time making sense of.

She decided on one emotion over the others, however, and that was contempt.

Ariela gave it all she got. She looked hard at the Orc. There he was, the murderous lout, wrinkling his dumb brow while his ratty little eyes squinted at her books—wracking his tiny brain to try to wrap it around things that were so obviously leagues above that thick skull. A despicable sight. Dumb as a bag of hammers from Hammerfell. How could she let anyone so worthless push her around?

Then, after carelessly tossing aside a few more of the precious tomes, each throw drawing an involuntary cringe out of her, the Orc pulled out a small booklet . . . Ariela's personal journal. It was the one she'd kept for the last year or so, recording her progress on the path toward becoming a real scholar. Entry upon entry about her doubts, and about moments of triumph and excitement. Some of those were _very_ sensitive indeed.

A profound sense of embarrassment took a hold of her, as the Orc started to idly turn the pages. A sense of embarrassment, yes, but also . . . _rage_. Her cheeks suddenly felt very hot. Ariela knew that, given her overall situation, it shouldn't be such a huge deal, but it still enraged her way beyond anything she would ever consider reasonable that this ugly brute should pry into her private matters, her innermost thoughts and reflections. At the moment it simply felt like the ultimate invasion, the highest humiliation, and she could no longer contain herself.

"Hey!" she yelled. "Put that away!" Though through the gag it obviously didn't end up sounding anything like that.

It did catch the Orc's attention, however. He picked his head up and looked at her, a mildly curious expression on his face.

She repeated herself and the Orc cocked his head, the tiniest of smirks appearing at the corner of his mouth.

"Do you not understand?" Ariela tried to make the words sound out, but to no avail. She continued regardless. "That is not for you to read!"

The Orc wrinkled his brow and smiled a mischievous smile. Then he gave her a mocking shake of the head. He fanned out his arms and shrugged. "Sorry, can't understand!"

"What do you want from me?" cried Ariela.

Shake. Shrug. He actually seemed to be enjoying this unexpected change in routine.

"You . . . you . . . _monster_!" Ariela felt a bit ashamed that was the best she could come up with.

The Orc got on his feet and slowly approached her.

"You really have to try be more clear, darlin'!" He was all but chuckling now.

It made no difference what she said so she just let out a burst of angry-sounding nonsense—that's how it would come across anyway.

The Orc stopped right in front of her and squatted down. "We seem to be experiencing some sorta breach in communication here," he sneered.

Ariela looked the bandit straight in the eye. "YOU. BIG. DUMB. BEAST!"

The Orc pursed his lips and shook his head, as if truly apologetic. "Nope. Sorry. But here—"

He reached out his hand and Ariela flinched. Then he yanked the gag out of her mouth and tossed it aside.

"There!" he said. "That better?"

She coughed due to some inhaled spittle. After she'd managed to pull herself back together the Orc was already walking back.

"Well, you can speak your mind now," he said over his shoulder. He then turned around and sought her gaze. She stared back with sullen eyes, but her confidence was already starting to fade. Was it really wise to be agitating this murderer?

"Anytime you're ready," the bandit chief said, then settled back down and picked her diary up.

"Wuh-what are you doing?" Ariela asked. She cursed that she couldn't help to stammer now that she finally had her voice back.

"What's it look like?" the Orc replied. "I'm goin' through the loot. We don't capture folk _just_ for entertainment, y'know."

The way he stressed 'just' gave Ariela the creeps. She could feel dread climbing back up her spine.

"It's all I've got," she all but squeaked. She loathed to hear the weakness of her voice, drowned by the sheer size of the large hollow. "The books—that's it. I've got nothing valuable, you took all my money already."

The Orc didn't seem interested. "Regardless," he simply said, as if that was explanation enough. He didn't bother to lift his gaze anymore.

Ariela felt exasperated. How could she possibly reason with this thug?

Then the bandit put down the book, peered into the backpack and shook his head. He stood up, grabbing the sack by its bottom, and dumped all of its contents to the ground.

Ariela jerked. "Hey, careful! Some of those are very old!"

Now the Orc just seemed irritated. "Look now, girly," he said, giving her a hard look. "Quit your yappin' already and let me do my job! I know I removed your gag, but that don't mean I can't go back on that."

Ariela could feel the color rise to her cheeks. All of a sudden her indignant rage was back and immediately grew strong enough to bury what might have been left of her fear.

_Oh, that's it!_

"I'm _not_ a 'girly!'" she snapped.

The Orc raised his brows, as if just a tiny bit impressed by Ariela's newfound gall.

She wasn't going to let the opening pass. "I have a name, and you can at least try to muster up so much honor as to use it!" She paused for a while, gathering up all the remains of her dignity, while the Orc regarded her with a look of tepid curiosity.

"It's Ariela", she managed, now with calm composure. Hearing it in her own ears satisfied her, and no small amount.

"That's a pretty name," the Orc replied with surprising grace. He stood in a straight posture. "Mine's Grushnag," he proclaimed with a courteous incline of the head. "Grushnag Skullcrusher, my friends call me." His grin was wrought with self-satisfaction.

Somehow that irked Ariela beyond reason. "And your enemies _,_ what do _they_ call you?" she asked, trying to insert as much spite into the question as she could.

The Orc just seemed amused. "Ha!" he barked. "Why, I wouldn't know, would I? Ain't none alive to call me nothin'!" But then he immediately looked thoughtful. "Though . . . to be perfectly honest: usually, right before I get down and dirty and, y'know, part their pathetic souls from their bodies, they _do_ tend to call out somethin' like: ' _mercy, mercy_!'" He made his voice shrill and comical. Then he nodded, mainly to himself. "So yeah—I guess that's probably the name they know me by. Only for a very short time, though!"

He chuckled and then just stood there grinning, clearly expecting Ariela to be impressed.

She could not think of anything intelligent to say to that, so instead she kept her silence. She did, however, intentionally hold the bandit's gaze, regarding him with what she supposed to be the look you'd give a cockroach that just skidded from under your bed, right before you squished it under your heel.

If Grushnag was impressed by that, he hid it well. He simply shrugged and went back to rummaging through the rest of the contents of her backpack.

Ariela, however, was not finished. "Honestly, I don't know what it is you hope to find in there. I've told you: I have nothing of value." She paused. "Well, at least any value to _you._ "

To her surprise, that actually seemed to have an impact. Grushnag looked up again. He was frowning, looking almost offended, but Ariela couldn't say it wasn't just more of his mummery.

"What," he said, "you don't think me capable of appreciatin' your fancy books?" He pressed a hand on his chest. "Just 'cause I'm a bandit?" He gave her a suspicious squint. "Or is it 'cause I'm an Orc? Is that it?"

Ariela snorted. "I've known many an intelligent and capable Orc, with grace such as you couldn't even _dream_ of. True, your kind often come across a bit . . . _brusque._ But rest assured, my low judgment of your mental capabilities is merely a result of observation." When the Orc just stared at her, she added, "Let's just say: in my experience, the higher arts and murderers seldom mix."

Grushnag burst out laughing, hands on his hips. "Oh, that's fresh! Schooled by a pup! Tell me, what is it that you know about the real world, huh?"

Ariela wouldn't be daunted. "I know I saw you murder a man in cold blood. And—might I add—you seemed to take quite the pleasure in it, too."

"Rato?" The Orc snorted. "He was a fool!"

"And that means he deserved to die?"

Grushnag smiled. "Well, little darlin'— _my_ experience says fools end up catchin' their death before their time more often than not. That's just fact. 'Deserve' don't come into it. Besides, we're talkin' 'bout a man who, as I recall, _sold_ you. For a measly amount of money, _I_ _might add_." He gave Ariela a probing look, smiling maliciously. "Don't tell me you weren't just a little bit glad to see him get what was comin' for him?"

She felt a jab, as she couldn't deny feeling a little, dark pleasure somewhere in the less ethically sound recesses of her mind. But then, who could blame her? Surely the man had it . . .

No! It was wrong! She wouldn't let this Orc trick her. She would be better than that.

So she snorted defiantly. "Yeah, and look who's talking. _You_ bought me. That is beneath even what I thought of bandits before. By your logic you should now take that dagger to your own throat." She hesitated a bit, then added, "And before you ask—yes, I _would_ be glad to see that"

After a few seconds of pressing silence, the Orc gave a little nod. "You got guts, girl. I'll grant you that."

"I've got brains too!" Ariela snarled. "More that I can grant _you_. What sort of profit did you think you could make of me, huh? What are you going to do, sell me by the pound? Or perhaps you think rare academic work of zero interest to anyone but acolytes pays mint these days? Here, in Skyrim, where you don't even have a bloody _university_?"

Who was this person speaking with her mouth? Not the always polite and quiet little scholar girl, for sure. Whoever it was, however, she was feeling that person's anger very intimately, could not stop now even if she wanted. And a big part of her _really_ did.

Grushnag got up and started to slowly walk back towards her. "And who says it's money we were after?" he said. "I mean, think about it: payin' someone just to be able to rob them? In case they just happened to have something worth stealin'? " He shook his head. "You've got to admit, that don't seem to make much sense. We're bandits, not gamblers."

For a second Ariela thought she heard a noise somewhere in the distance. The clatter of metal, yells of men. But she had a whole different set of worries right in front of her.

The bandit knelt next to her. "There are other things besides money a man desires. It's a hard life out here in the wilderness, lonely nights. Tends to drive a man a little . . . _crazy._ "

He unsheathed his enormous dagger, and Ariela's eyes went wide. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt a gripping freeze about her insides. Just like that, all gall was gone from her, like it had never been there in the first place.

Grushnag pressed the cold blade gently against her cheek. Then he slowly traced it down her face, down her neck, stopping at the bare skin of her chest. His breath was hot and foul as his mouth twisted into a most unpleasant grin.

"A young thing like yourself?" He gave a dirty laugh. "Yeah, many a man would surely pay for _that_."

As he studied her with those burning yellow eyes, Ariela felt as if her soul were trying to break free from her body.

_No, he wouldn't,_ she thought. He had to just be trying to scare her. He _had_ to.

The Orc leaned in closer, tongue between his teeth.

"Boss!" a gruff voice called then, and Grushnag snapped around. Ariela let out a ragged breath of relief as the dagger was lifted off her chest.

One of the other bandits—a tall and sturdy Nord with a long, tattered beard and long, dirty hair covered by a horned helmet—stood slightly winded by the fire pit. He carried a shield and had his blade drawn. His eyes were open wide from either worry or exhilaration.

Then the man's bearded face cracked into a ferocious grin. "Boss, we got company!" he croaked.

Then, behind the Nord, another man burst in. This one was considerably shorter in stature, a gaunt, bald man with a tawdry, ratty face. Ariela though he looked like an Imperial, but couldn't say for sure. She was struck cold by the disturbing memory of those eyes, of the predatory grin on the man's face as he'd glared at her when they'd seized her.

She shuddered as his eyes found hers again, though this time they hadn't much time to linger on her, as the man was soon preoccupied, turning back to face the fast-moving figure that stormed in the cavern in his wake. A third man—shorter than the first but taller than the second—holding a sword in each hand barraged in and stopped in front of the entrance.

The newcomer assumed a battle-ready stance as did the other men, and for a few seconds they just stood there trading hard glares. As the man's eye visited first upon Grushnag standing there, and then at her behind him, it became obvious to Ariela she had been mistaken. This was not a man at all, but a woman. The strong build and face smudged in war paint—or maybe it was dirt—had thrown her off at first.

The woman then focused on the men in front of her, spitting through her teeth.

Ariela swallowed. The atmosphere in the cavern had suddenly become laden with the threat of violence.

_Oh, brother_ , she thought. _What's happening now?_

And then it was happening.


	4. The Imperial Investigator

 

It needed to be said: whoever had designed Solitude, must have been a complete bloody lunatic.

But, of course, if Quintus Lex had learned one thing during his nearly forty years in the service of the Empire, it was that one simply did not go around saying things just because they needed to be said. Indeed, one had best stick to uttering only words that were considered pleasing, and pleasing to the right people. Words that one could benefit from. The right lie in the right place could make a man, just as well as a spoken inconvenient truth—at practically _any_ time _—_ could undo him. Quintus himself had not achieved the position he had by running his mouth without due consideration, and even following along that wise course he had had to fight to retain even scraps of the glory he'd once known.

Still, looking at the way the capital city of Skyrim hung precariously over the stone formation in the shape of a giant arch crossing the mouth of the Karth River, it was obvious to even the most ignorant bird-brain this was not a province that knew earthquakes. Such blatant, ostentatious display of any disregard for public safety would have been absolutely out of the question anywhere the ground knew not the sort of courtesy towards civilized life as to kindly stay immobile.

Quintus lifted the glass of brandy to his chafed lips, winced as the alcohol burned them. But as the warmth traveled down his throat and spread around his empty stomach, a wave of pleasure made his body tingle from head to toe. He'd promised himself he would go twenty-four hours without a drink, to prove to himself he still could. This was his reward.

He was in the mood to celebrate. Perhaps once more before setting his foot ashore . . .

The floor swayed minimally under his calfskin boots. After four days waterborne, he experienced the little rocking as almost soothing. As far as elements went, he'd never hated the sea, if he hadn't had much love for her either. But at his age the lack of solidity for days on end carried its toll. And it had been a while since his last time. Not the best of occasions for sobriety experimentation, perhaps, but then when was it ever a good time?

It still felt like something of an adventure, though. How long had it been that he'd spent huddled in his villa at High Rock, how many years? A choice, certainly, but how often it was that men ended up as prisoners of their own need for comfort. Those were hardest dungeons to break free from, the ones of your own making. Sometimes it took the ultimatum of the increasingly paranoid Emperor of the greatest power on Nirn to make that break.

As it happened, it had also been years since the last time Quintus had had the pleasure—or _displeasure_ —of personally speaking with the Sovereign himself. He wondered if the man was still a jittery, wide-eyed wreck, driven by his paranoia and obsession for safety, surrounded by pampering sycophants who'd be caught dead before showing a little backbone and setting their ruler straight.

Was there ever anything so likely?

To put the matter bluntly: if it hadn't been for the competence of the Elder Council at large, picking up the ball where Attrebus Mede II had dropped it from of his shaky mitts, the Empire would have been dead and buried a long time ago, and the world would be run by the nasty Thalmor instead. Actually, if he was completely honest with himself, Quintus was quite surprised it wasn't already.

He sighed. At least he _could_ still be honest with himself. He wondered how long that would last.

_Gods, how I'm glad to be out of Imperial City!_

It was true, too. Thought, of course, it hadn't always been so.

The first couple months— _years_ to be honest—in High Rock, he'd spent boiling in anger—suffering his "great exile" as he had so bombastically dubbed it. That they dared to drive him out of his position which he'd worked so hard to achieve, smeared his good name in the eyes of the Emperor, managed to make him seem incompetent and even suspect in loyalty! Those things alone would have sufficed to embitter anyone. But the final straw, the bit that he'd _really_ had a hard time letting go of, was that they'd scammed him out of his estate at Cyrodiil's Gold Coast, his pride and joy, built—to some extent—to his own design. It was an outrage, plain and simple.

But there had obviously been nothing he could do. When the most powerful man in the world, albeit questionable of sanity, tells you directly that you've been reassigned, that your new position will necessarily require you to relocate your entire life to an entirely different province, away from the center of power and out to the Empire's farthest northwestern corner, there is very little you can say to argue. No, you will smile and you will nod. And you will comply.

The might have as well said the words. "Early retirement". In action, that was exactly what it had been.

_It could have been worse_ , Quintus reflected sourly, staring up at what was visible of the silhouetted shape of the Blue Palace. They could have assigned him _here,_ in Skyrim. Oh, how bitterly ironic that would have been. The snakes of Imperial City, his rivals and enemies, would have just _loved_ it.

But, in any case, the bastards had had their way. They'd won. From that moment on—when the letter with the hated message with the Emperor's own seal on it had been laid in his hand—Quintus had no longer been the Chief Investigator of Penitus Oculus. Nominally, he'd retained the position, sure, but in action he could say farewell to his former position and the prestige in the eyes of the realm that it had brought. He'd been set aside, and nobody had been confused about it, even if no one would say it to his face. He was as good as nobody now, even if he had kept his title.

All that because he'd not been able to catch a ghost.

When the Emperor of Tamriel was assassinated, as had happened with Titus Mede II, it was obviously no trifling matter. One might have thought another Oblivion crisis had started judging by what hullabaloo broke lose after it. A regular shitstorm, to put the matter plain and simple. Never mind the Skyrim Civil War, drawing to a close anyway at the time, with the news of the Emperor being found sprawled in a puddle of his own blood on the floor of his personal transport vessel, a new smile from ear to ear carved across his neck, the whole realm had been up in arms in a matter of hours. As of course it should have, considering the more or less immediate threat of the Aldmeri Dominion taking this as their cue to launch a full scale assault. For one reason or another, however, they had not.

Well, they _had_ of course launched a full-scale offensive on Hammerfell first thing. But since the Empire never _officially_ took part in the conflict—the War of Hammerfell, as they formally dubbed it—it didn't really matter. So then, when the smoke had had a chance to clear out just a bit, and with the Dominion tied up grappling with the headstrong Redguard, it had been time to try and think clearly for a while. And once the last pair of counselor hands had been pried off the last throat of a colleague, the unanimous decision to send Quintus, the finest sleuth in the whole of Tamriel, to solve the murder had been gaveled on the desk of the High Chancellor.

It was of utmost importance that the culprit—or, what was more likely, culprit _s_ —be brought to swift and unequivocal justice. Heads needed to roll and blood squirt from the neck stumps of these evildoers before the domain could sleep peacefully again.

Unfortunately, though, it soon became obvious that the realm would have to get used to restless nights of cold sweats, for the killer—or killers—had vanished into thin air. Nothing but silence and a whole lot of shrugging shoulders had been left in their wake in Skyrim. Even though it was widely known to be the work of the Dark Brotherhood, nobody could point him to their lead. No one seemed to have any idea where to find them. And that had meant _everybody_. Every lead he'd been able to follow had soon terminated in a dead end. The whole _province_ was one big bleeding dead end!

There was nothing even Quintus with his abilities could have done about that. He could not be blamed.

Or so he'd thought.

He, of course, shouldn't have been at all surprised when upon his return he'd seen all the lazy sods, who themselves had done nothing at all to try to help the situation, lined up behind the throne, pointing their fat, complacent fingers at him. They'd managed by this point to sit a new puppet—er, _Emperor_ —on the throne. An adopted son of the previous one, apparently, though Quintus could not remember even setting his eyes on the lanky boy before. But who was he to question? He certainly had not said anything in his own defense, not wanting to look like he _needed_ to.

So, during the next few months, Emperor Attrebus Mede II had officially stepped into office, the realm had been pacified, the murder—no matter how unsolved—had slowly been forgotten, and Quintus Lex, the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculatus and a loyal imperial lap dog, had been chucked aside like yesterday's garbage. Couple more years he'd managed to still hold on to the edge of his former position, long enough to watch the unfledged wide-eyed youth of an emperor transform into a hollow faced, shifty-eyed wreck, before he was out of Cyrodiil for good.

So that's what he had deserved after years of spotless service?

_And when, exactly, was it that_ deserve _stepped into the great arena of political games?_ said a cynical voice in his head.

_Indeed._ Quintus sighed. He had been bit childish about the whole thing, he could as much as admit that now. Who could blame him, though?

He'd gotten used to it in time, of course, like people always do. And, as people also have a way of doing, had even come to in his way cherish his new position. Soon enough he'd been telling himself a story about how it was actually better this way, how being out of the way of all the backstabbing he could finally relax, enjoy himself after years of, ultimately, thankless hard work. After all, it wasn't like he didn't still have a very comfortable life, a nice estate, servants . . .

And so, in the end, he'd gotten complacent and lazy. Comfort, if nothing else, had been the final nail in the coffin of his ambition. Even if he did, in the recesses of his mind, in some distant corner where his pride had gone to sleep its comatose sleep, still nurse the idea that his star had still not entirely vanished. Dimmed temporarily, sure, but that one day it would burn again, and he would once more get to look into the faces of his old enemies, read the mute rage in them, the sign of their defeat. Step back into the limelight, into the center of power, having regained his earlier position. _Surpassed_ it.

And in his weakest moments, he'd nearly brought himself to believe it, too.

But when it had seemed like he might indeed get one more chance of making that happen, when that moment had actually arrived, he'd been filled with an odd sort of dread. The thought of having to break out of his long and dedicatedly built cocoon of self-pity and depravity for real, it had been frightening.

Luckily he'd had little choice. The letter—the first personal message with the Emperor's own writ since the _last_ one— that his perturbed, drunken eyes had hastily read through while he'd been trying to steady the trembling hands holding it, had left no room for sloppy interpretation. " _I must insist_ . . . _The realm demands it that you_ . . . _It would be regretful it you should_ . . ."

_Yes, yes, yes. I get it! Do or die—you've made your point abundantly clear!_

And so back to Skyrim it was. But Quintus had to admit that despite some initial grumbling over how utterly pointless the whole thing had seemed—a supposed new lead after nearly two decades of dead silence—he'd been happy to go. Why? Because, even after years and years of silent resignation, it seemed his ambition had not entirely died after all. If there was a chance, no matter how minute, to prove his worth once more, to make one more comeback to the height of his career, _by gods_ he would take it!

He would give it all he had left of his abilities. This time he would not suffer humiliation. He would make sure of it, one way or another.

He smiled, tearing his eyes from the window and taking a look around the cabin over his shoulder. That was another thing he was happy about, that now he finally had the chance to take this ship for a maiden voyage.

Her maiden voyage in _his_ command, it was.

_Alessia's Revenge_ had already seen its share of action before he'd bought it. Built sometime around the Skyrim Civil War by the East Empire Trading Company, it had been commanded by the legendary Captain Viccia Caro. She'd been sacked by the Empire, and then immediately hired by the Company on account of her impressive track record. She'd captained the ship during the assault against the Blood Horkers, a band of pirates that had been giving the Company trouble at the time, and, after that, during many successful hits against other pirates who were hampering trade. Later, she'd taken the ship on adventures around the seas of Tamriel—only to have finally gotten lost, never to be seen or heard of again.

There were rumors, of course, as there always were. One said that the Captain had gotten lost looking for the hidden treasure of the fabled Hero of Kvatch, and that she and her entire crew had mysteriously disappeared. Another yarn dictated that she'd become a pirate and had either been killed by the insane pirate captain she'd rivaled against, or possibly fallen in love with him and sailed out of Tamriel altogether on his ship. And yet another rumor went that she'd met the Hero himself who had actually become a god, and to this day lives by him in celestial bliss.

Whatever the truth might have been, the woman was a damned legend, and so was the ship. No one could tell, though, how she and her ship had been separated. All that anyone knew was that the unmanned vessel was found floating about the coast of High Rock, empty of even dead bodies. The finders—not knowledgeable of important figures of Imperial history like Quintus was—hadn't realized how precious the galleon actually was, and so the fools had sold it to him for pennies. Anyone around Cyrodiil would have paid through the nose for such a historical gem.

It was a worthy ship to carry him to reclaim his glory.

"Where ever you are," Quintus muttered, staring out the window, "this time you're mine."

He wouldn't rest until he had a name. A head in a box, preferably. If this new lead, whatever it was supposed to be, turned out to be for real, he'd let nothing stand in his way. They wouldn't see it coming this time, not after so long. If it truly was the Dark Brotherhood behind the murder, he'd turn over every stone in the province to get to them, go to Sithis, the dark deity they harvested souls for, himself if need be.

Quintus finished his brandy with a quick toss and grinned at his reflection in the window glass. His age might have gotten to him just a little, with his ruddy cheeks and the receding, graying hairline revealing a forehead starting to collect its first faint liver spots, but there was a fire still burning in the sharp stare of his hazel eyes. Nobody in their right mind would have taken him for washed-out.

"You'll show them, _Chief Inspector_ ," he purred to his image. "If it takes you—"

A knock on the door stole his wind. Irritated, he snapped around.

"Yes, what is it? Come in!"

The door flew open and a young man in spotless, freshly oiled Imperial light armor stood rigid in the doorway. "Sir," he said. "We're about ready to go ashore."

"Are you, now? Well, _I_ 'm not."

A frown flickered on the man's handsome, clean-shaven features. "Sir?"

"Tell me—sergeant Meric, was it?" The man had an Imperial face but a Breton name. Curious.

"Yes sir."

"Have you been to Skyrim before?"

"No sir, I have not."

"Ah," replied Quintus. "Then you don't yet know what an obstinate, uncivilized place it is. Like its people."

"Sir, I've known Nords—"

"Ah!" Quintus waved his hand impatiently. "Not the same. Not the same at all. Even a Nord is tolerable when outside of his own home. But here, even a noble Imperial can get tainted. Lose his decorum." He tried to take another sip, then remembered the glass was empty. He waved the glass at the uncomfortable looking officer. "I'd be careful, if I were you."

"Yes, sir. I'll take that into account, sir."

Quintus smiled at the young man's diplomatic reply. He felt a tiny buzz in his head. It felt good.

He turned his back to the door. "Dismissed."

After a second of hesitation, Meric made to leave.

"And Meric?" Quintus said.

The man stopped. "Sir."

"Send in the boy."

From the way he said nothing at first, Quintus could hear the man's distaste. But soon he hastily replied, "Yes sir," then snapped his heels together and took his leave.

Quintus sighed, twirling the empty glass in his hand, staring at the Blue Palace high above him. He was not looking forward to having deal with its inhabitants again. With _her._

Soon the door opened and closed again. The boy, he never knocked. Quintus suppressed a smile.

"Sir, you called," the boy said, timid as a little mouse.

"I did, Colin. I most certainly did." Without turning, Quintus held out his glass. "My drink needs refreshing."

The boy sidled quietly behind him and took the glass. Quintus smiled at his reflection while Colin went to the night table, refilled the glass from the bottle of Cyrodiil Brandy on it, and came back to place in in his waiting hand.

"Thank you, Colin," he said, and took a long sip. There was the burn again, but he was starting to get used to the pain.

Colin waited obediently for further instructions, saying nothing. As usual.

Finally, Quintus turned to the boy. He was pale and slight, with semi-long brunette locks that somehow always found their way into his face. He had delicate Breton features, slanted dark eyes and high cheek bones. He almost never smiled, but that didn't at all mar the beauty of his face.

Quintus raised his free hand to brush the long stand of hair from over the boy's eyes. He touched his cheek with the back of his hand, and the boy flinched almost imperceptibly. He gently stroked the cheek.

"We're in Skyrim, now," he told the boy. "Are you excited?"

Colin hesitated. "Uh, yes sir. I guess." His voice was cracking as it had slowly started its slow transformation into the low voice of a man.

Suppose all things beautiful had to die, eventually.

"You guess." Quintus grunted, amused. He smiled, looked the boy deep in the eye. "Well, can you _guess_ what I'm in the mood for?"

Colin tensed up just a bit and dropped his gaze from Quintus' chest to his boots. He nodded.

Quintus clenched Colin's chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted his face. The boy reluctantly met his gaze. As those sensual brown eyes met with his, the mix of emotion in them gave Quintus a hot shiver.

"Good," he breathed. "Now, get ready."

The boy nodded, and Quintus let go of his chin. Then Colin walked to the bed at the back of the cabin. Quintus downed his drink with one gulp. He looked at his refection one more time while starting to undo his belt.

_Yes, sir Chief Inspector_ , he thought. _Let's see them try and stop you this time!_


	5. The Fun Part

Ariela watched with her eyes wide as the two men sized up the woman crouching in front of them.

The big man stroked his bushy beard with his sword hand. "Well well well," he gloated. "Are you in trouble now. Three against one; might as well give yourself up." He grinned like a wolf inviting a sheep to supper. "Promise we won't hurt you _too_ bad."

"That's right, sweetie," chimed the shorter man, sibilating like a pervy snake, "let's just quickly get over the formalities, shall we, and get to the fun part!" He grinned, also, and cupped his crotch.

"Oh, that's where you're wrong, Draugrface," replied the woman, her voice betraying not a hint of trepidation. "This _is_ the fun part!"

The men shared a quick look, then charged as one.

The woman raised her blades up to parry each of theirs, and then put her foot on the chest of the bearded Nord, pushing him back a few unsteady steps. She then jabbed the tip of her right-hand sword into the shoulder of the other man, who let out a high-pitched squeal; not unlike, Ariela took note, a stuck pig.

Immediately the woman spun around, seeking to plunge her left blade backhandedly into the Nord bandit's chest, but the man regained his balance and just barely managed to swat the attack aside. The woman brought her other blade at him in a large, swooshing arc. The bandit, however, wasn't waiting around. He rammed his shield right into the woman, and she stumbled backwards.

The Nord tried for a fresh attack, but was clearly too enraged to consider his moves very carefully. Instead he simply barreled at the woman roaring in rage, his blade raised high above his head. Before he could reach her, however, the woman had regained her ground and nimbly dashed out from under the way of his blow. His sword clanged loudly on the rocky ground, striking sparks.

_So fast!_ Ariela thought.

She hadn't witnessed many real fights before; mainly just folks sparring, and maybe an odd drunken fencing match. Never before had she seen anyone move as quickly as this woman did. Next to her the two men looked like a pair of clubfooted galoots.

The other bandit had now quickly recovered from the shock of the shoulder jab, and had in turn flown into an inflamed rage. Anger didn't seem to do anything to polish his sense of tactics, either. He chose to charge at the woman with his sword pointed directly forward, both hands on the hilt.

The woman easily dodged the blade by buckling her knees and shifting the center of her gravity to the left. She went down on the ground, supported by her elbow, and with a swing of leg swept her attacker's feet from underneath him. He went tumbling on the ground, his sword flinging out of his hand. She rolled and was immediately back on her feet, facing the Nord. He was now standing in a slight crouch, with his legs wide apart. He stared at the woman intently with fierce eyes, breathing heavily through his long, wide nose.

For a while neither of them moved. The man was growling quietly, like a bear preparing to lunge at a cornered deer. The woman simply held his gaze, seeming perfectly calm and barely winded.

She shrugged at the man. "Well," she said, "are we still going or what?"

The man did not reply, and still nobody moved.

Then the smaller bandit, who had now retracted his blade, joined the Nord's side. He looked humiliated, but was obviously doing his best to retain the air of gloating, mischievous mirth. As if it was obvious he was still playing for the winning side.

The bigger man struck his shield with his sword a couple times. "C'mon, bitch!" he growled. "Show us what you got, huh!"

Ariela was fairly sure she caught a note of uncertainty underneath all the blustering. The man overdid his aggressiveness: that was the giveaway. And to her it seemed obvious his adversary saw right through it.

True enough, the woman just smiled. "After you, gentlemen," she purred.

The bandits grunted in unison, then stormed at her. She darted to meet them, as if she was going to run them both down all by herself, her blades held high and face twisted into a belligerent grimace. Right before the impact, though, she pulled back her arms, plunged down and dove through the narrow space between the bandits.

Before either men had time to react, she sunk her heel in the side of the shorter one to her right, sending him tumbling on his knees. Then, still moving with astonishing speed, instead of carrying forward on her trajectory, the woman drove her right foot hard on the ground in front of her and—with a maneuver what must have demanded a great deal of control over her midsection—propelled herself back and flung her blade at the larger bandit.

The man had only enough time to turn and meet her sword wheeling towards his head. It drew a gash across his cheek, and blood sprayed on his armor. Without delay, the woman pushed her foot in the man's chest, and he toppled back onto his rump. She then turned to the other man struggling to scramble up onto his feet. He was too slow, and the woman drove the tip of her left-hand sword right through his throat. There was a sickening, garbled squeal that echoed in the cavern, making Ariela's skin crawl.

The Nord bandit was still on the ground as the woman rushed at him. She lifted her swords above her head, at the same time flipping them so that the blades came to point downwards. There was no time for the man to even start to defend himself before she brought them down, sinking both swords to their hilts on either side of his head, in the soft flesh between the neck and the collar bone.

The man's eyes flew wide open and his face contorted into a horrid grimace. He coughed, sent a spray of blood on the woman's face. The woman pressed a knee against his chest and pulled her swords free, letting what was left of him slump onto the ground.

She then stepped over the body to face the Orc who was still just standing there, opening and closing his fists.

Ariela could hardly take it all in, it had happened so quickly. The whole thing had been over within a minute, and the two men who had just seemed like the most dangerous kind of people she could imagine now lay on the ground, dead or dying, and this warrior of a woman was still standing. She faced the Orc in a battle-ready crouch—her left sword held on guard in front of her and the right one drawn back, ready to strike. She was breathing intensely, but looked far from spent. Blood dripped down her face in long streaks, none of it her own. Her face was stolid but her eyes held a hungry gleam.

"You're next, big guy," she said—her voice level, yet eager.

Grushnag cracked his neck and then finally slowly unslung his monstrous warhammer. "You made a big mistake comin' down here," he growled.

"Mistake?" The woman sounded amused. "Last time I checked, it wasn't _me_ twitching on the floor, sputtering blood." She hawked up phlegm and spewed it out of the side of her mouth, keeping her gaze on the bandit chief. "Your friends are dead. You're all alone now."

The Orc snorted. " _Friends_?" he barked. "I ain't _got_ no friends! A man in my position can't afford 'em." He shook his head. "Nah, all you've done is just temporarily cut back the number of my associates." He nodded contemptuously towards his late companions. " _Those_ I can always get more."

"Not where you're going, you can't," replied the woman, "'less you buddy up with the Dread-Father himself."

Ariela couldn't help to recoil a bit at hearing Sithis evoked. But at the same time she found the woman's remark intriguing, insofar as it seemed to carry an allusion to an obscure folk belief, which dictated that when a wicked person died, his soul got sucked into the Void and was there tormented by Sithis as punishment for its sins. That belief was obviously not backed by any reputable religious or scholarly authority. Generally it was maintained that the way Sithis acquired souls was through a specific sacrifice, mainly performed by the Dark Brotherhood. And this woman did not strike Ariela as an assassin.

But this, of course, was hardly the time for such musings.

Grushnag took a step towards the woman. "Enough talkin'," he growled. "Better get on with it."

He charged with a mighty bellow. The woman stood her ground, only taking a quick step back as the Orc's horizontal swing nearly caught her. She then swung her right hand sword at Grushnag's head, but he snapped it out of the way astonishingly fast. Immediately after that he brought the butt of the hammer hard into the woman's chest. This clearly seemed to take her by surprise; one didn't expect somebody so bulky to move with such speed.

Grushnag's thrust threw the woman backwards and she stumbled down on her behind. The Orc followed up with an overhead blow, seeking to crush her under it. But she managed to scramble out of the way, and the hammerhead dusted the ground with an earth-shaking thud. The Nord had no time to find her legs as Grushnag rammed his foot in her behind, and sent her face down on the gravel. Grushnag brought the hammer down hard in another overhead swing, but the woman had managed to turn and raise her swords in front of her, crossed to catch the attack.

Ariela gasped as, astonishingly, the hammer stopped between the blades. The woman was on one knee, and had somehow been able to withstand the force behind the Orc's attack.

The bandit leader's onslaught, however, was still to continue. He immediately followed up on his intercepted blow with a kick, which caught the woman's breastplate. Once again she stumbled backwards, though this time did not trip. The kick seemed to instead help her back on her feet; though this was short lived, for the Orc dealt a powerful crosswise blow with the shaft of the hammer, and then she was back on the ground, landing on her back this time.

Grushnag stopped to wait for the woman to find her feet again. It was either that he was trying to fight fair, Ariela thought, or simply was trying to draw the thing out, like cat playing with his prey. Honorable, or simply overconfident.

Quite obviously, Ariela suspected the latter.

The large Orc barked a laugh. "What's the matter? Not so cocky now that you're up against a _real_ warrior, huh?" he sneered as the woman climbed back on her feet.

Yup. Definitely the latter.

The woman did not reply. Neither did she move, just stood there crouching in a compact position, regarding Grushnag and waiting for his next move.

It came soon enough. The Orc sprung with a dreadful roar, trying for another massive overhead pummel. This time the woman avoided it by agilely wheelbarrowing backwards, a move which done while holding swords in both hands greatly impressed Ariela. Then she spun around and ran for the exit.

"Hey!" yelled the Orc. "Where do you think you're going? Get back here!" He took off after the woman disappearing through the exit.

Soon after that, the sounds of fighting continued. Grunting and the clanking of armor against sword, a loud crack like a warhammer crushing stone—stone, not bone, remarked Ariela with relief. Not being able to see what was going on left her feeling even more nervous than watching them go at it in the open had. And that had done it aplenty.

After a small forever the almost feline figure of the warrior woman sprang out of another cavity to the left side from where she'd exited, one Ariela had not even noticed earlier. With few strong strides she'd crossed the lair. She then skidded to a stop, boots scraping gravel. Her intense eyes met with Ariela's.

The look on her warrior's face softened and she smiled faintly. She winked at Ariela.

Before Ariela had time to react in any way, the Orc also stormed into the cavern. The woman turned around to face him. The bandit came to a stop a few strides away, grinning with a mix of glee and hatred. That was an expression of someone ready to spill blood if there ever was one. And it looked like he would do it with great gusto indeed.

"Wait!" the woman screamed all of a sudden, lifting her swords up and towards her adversary.

Then she _dropped_ them. Ariela's heart leaped into her throat as the blades went clanking on the ground in between the combatants.

What was she doing!

"Just wait," the woman repeated.

She kept her hand raised, palms turned towards the Orc regarding her with one cocked eyebrow. He was still grinning, but now with a somewhat disbelieving tint to his expression.

"I—I made a mistake," the warrior woman continued, going down on her knees. "I should never have come!" There seemed to be genuine concern in her voice. Fear, even. Ariela could not believe her ears, and didn't fare much better with what her eyes were trying to tell her, either.

_It's a trick_ , she thought. Had to be! But that didn't stop the gripping feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The woman was now literally groveling on the ground. "Please," she pleaded. "Surely we can come to some sort of agreement." She really did sound pathetic.

The Orc cracked his neck with a contemptuous smile on his lips. No, there would be no negotiations coming. Those eyes knew only murder. He cocked the battle hammer and started towards the woman with a slow deliberate stride. Ariela entire body felt to clench up.

But it turned out she'd been right. The woman had scooped a handful of gravel from the ground while the Orc had only paid attention to her supposed surrender, doubtless reveling in how he was going to maul her body into pulp. She sprang up and tossed the sand in the approaching Orc's face.

The effect was undoubtedly the desired one, for Grushnag appeared to be taken completely by surprise. He screeched, holding his face as sand got into his eyes.

_Can't believe he fell for it!_ Ariela thought mirthfully. Never mind that so had she. _Almost_ had,anyway.

The warrior woman shot up and snatched her blades off the ground, then charged at her momentarily incapacitated foe. The Orc swung his axe at her in a blind, one-handed blow, but she dove underneath it, extended her leg and drove her foot into Grushnag's knee, putting her whole weight behind the impact. The knee bent backwards and the Orc roared with pain. Then the woman slashed at his face with her right-hand blade, and he fell back in a gush of blood.

Now it was Grushnag on his back, and the woman rushed at him to finish the job. Somehow, though, the Orc managed to get his hammer between him and his attacker. He thrusted it at the woman's stomach and lifted her up, tossing her over himself. She landed on her shoulder with a grunt and rolled over, managing to somewhat control the unexpected plunge.

Enraged, Grushnag sprung onto his feet and pressed on after her. As she had barely managed to get up, the Orc shoved her back with the shaft of his hammer. He drove her hard into the cavern wall and pressed her against it with her arms helplessly pinned to the sides. Her swords were useless against him in that position.

Grushnag roared. He would crush the woman, there was no way she could resist him now. Strong and agile as she might be, she could be no match to the sheer raw strength of this giant Orc. Ariela felt a crushing despair. _So close_.

But then the woman cocked back her head and brought her forehead against Grushnag's face. Once, and the Orc seemed to waver; twice, and his hold loosened enough for her to slip away. She lurched towards Ariela, then stopped. The Orc was still recovering from the blows, his face bloody both from the earlier gash and now from his nose as well. The hateful growl erupting from his throat was no longer just inhuman _,_ but in _orcish_ as well.

Ariela saw that the front of the woman's helmet had actually bent from the impact against the Orc's head. The nose guard was pointing inwards, and the whole thing looked like it was sitting wrong. Either the smithmanship of Skyrim wasn't all that, the whole thing was made of tin, or then it had been some serious head-butting. Judging from the look on Grushnag's face, and by the way the warrior woman was shaking her head as if a bit disoriented, it was likely the latter.

The woman shook her head a couple times and settled herself, then unstrapped her helmet and tossed in on the ground, reveling blonde, braided hair plastered against her scalp with sweat. She then whipped around to face the Orc, who had in turn recovered enough to get back into action.

Grushnag was no longer grinning. His rage was the only thing intact from his earlier disposition. He mightn't have carried that cock-sure swagger anymore, and was likely shaken out of his earlier over-confidence—but looking at him now, with his face covered in gore and with that murderous, rageful grimace, he still looked very much a force to be reckoned with. In any case, Ariela was quite convinced she'd never witnessed a more unsettling sight in her life.

That in itself, of course, was rather a gross understatement.

The Orc sprang, rolling forward with a sideways swing of the warhammer. He was now limping badly, but otherwise showed little sign of slowing down. In fact, in contrast to his late "associates", his rage seemed to only sharpen his moves, making him an even more formidable opponent. The warrior woman had just managed to duck from under one of his blows when he followed up with another. And another. Then another.

It was simply amazing how fast he was swinging that heavy warhammer, almost as if it was nothing but a light dueling sword. The woman kept evading blow after blow, dancing around the grunting beast trying to pummel her, but did not seem to get a change to find an opening for comeuppance. She was even starting to look tired, whereas the fury boiling in Grushnag's veins seemed to guarantee him an endless source of energy.

Then, dodging under yet another swing, the woman sprinted past Grushnag, in the passing managing to nick the side of his head with her blade. She took three long strides, then skidded to a stop. The Orc came right after her, never slowing down for a second, and the woman bolted to meet him. She had both her swords pointed towards Grushnag, as if to run right at him. But as the Orc swung the hammer aimed at her torso, she buckled and straightened her leg, colliding her foot with Grushnag's other knee—the good one.

The bandit chief's screech of pain was gut-wrenching. His hammer slipped loose from his hands and went flying across the cavern. He lost his balance and was about to crash on top of the woman on the ground in front of her. But she dealt him a powerful kick in the face, and so instead he tumbled backwards and landed on his rear. The warrior woman sprang right up, fanned her blades out wide, and then brought them together at Grushnag's neck. His head came right off, rolled off his shoulders and onto the ground. A pulsating spray of blood shot up from the stump of his neck.

His body just sat there, tottering backwards very slowly. The woman eventually shoved it down with the tip of her boot. She bent down to his severed head, grinning.

"I win!" she told the head, then spat in its face. She straightened up, wound her foot back and gave a good kick.

The head went flying across the cavern, splatters of blood in its wake, and landed near the fire pit. It continued rolling on its way, right towards Ariela, then came to stop at her feet—the unseeing, bloodshot eyes looking straight at her.

She let out an involuntary yelp, and did her best to kick with her bound legs to get the hideous thing away from her. It rolled off and stopped a few feet away, with those eyes, thankfully, facing away from her.

Ariela shivered in horror and disgust. Once again she was overtaken by a strong and concrete suspicion that she'd make a big mistake coming to Skyrim.

 


	6. The Breton Thief

 

 

 

The Ratway stank.

It stank of decaying refuse, of abandonment and oblivion, of the washed-out waste of this town. Of vice decomposing. Fitting, then, that the tunnel system running under the streets of Riften should hold the nerve center of the rotten underworld of the city. Of the whole province. Of the whole Empire, perhaps. Here was where the rats nested, the vermin eating away at the foundations of society. And it it reeked accordingly.

Merard Motierre was not a man easily shaken. The stench, however, was seriously testing his mettle. It was so strong even the short walk through it was nearly too much. It was almost like a solid substance, the way it slowed you down. Wore you out.

He picked up his pace, opening and closing his fist still sore from busting in the nose of the creep who'd walked up to him upon entrance. It went from his knuckles up to his forearm, the pain—sparkles both sharp and dull, hot and cold. Sweet and sour.

Such a wealth of sensation.

Another ragged creature examined him as he stormed past, eyes wide with fear or hatred or madness or—even more likely—all of those and a whole lot more. This one was smart enough not to get in his way. Instead it pressed itself flat against the filthy stone wall. A strange, quiet gurgling sound erupted from its throat as he passed.

Amazing how quickly a man could be reduced to beast, be stripped of the vestiges of his humanity. All that was needed were the right circumstances. How long until it finally happened to him?

Biting down the temptation to self-reflect, Merard descended the steps to the door of the tavern. He reflexively patted his pocket. The stone was intact.

This had better be it. They'd damn well better say this was enough, send him forward already. Send him to the Man himself. The thought alone quickened his pulse and stirred his emotions, the two that were still left. Hatred and anticipation, like lovers laying entwined while the world around them crumbled. Revenge—that was as sweet a word as there was. Justice was the deaf, dumb, and blind dog following at its heels.

He stopped at the door, a strange reluctance setting in. He didn't know if he could take it if they said "no". It might get ugly. He didn't know how much longer he could hold himself back. Or whatever might have been left of any "self" he once might have possessed.

How long had it been already? A year? No, less than that, though it felt much longer. And, in any case, had already been too long.

At times he had to wonder if he'd made a mistake coming to Skyrim.

_No!_

He shut off the apprehensive parts of his mind altogether and knocked on the door. Five times: long, long, short, short. Pause. Last one harder.

After a score of heartbeats and a blink, the door opened. An Orc stood there, looking down at him and frowning.

"Evening," Merard said.

The Orc nodded, then stepped aside, and he stepped in.

The stench subsided, only to be replaced by another one. This one every bit as repulsive, but in a whole different way. A mix of things. Alcohol. Skooma. Greed. Malice. But these, these he could live with. He knew them, knew them well. Knew them like he knew the eyes of his dead father.

Each time he looked in the mirror he saw those eyes there, watching him. Waiting.

Those eyes now scanned the large circular space that was the Ragged Flagon. It was a familiar sight by now, but by force of habit he quickly scoped each of the four alcoves rimming the room: an alchemy shop and smithy to the left, a fletcher and an armory to the right. In the center of the space was a large, shallow pool of surprisingly clear water which hardly smelled of sewage at all. At the opposite end from where Merard was standing, a pier with tables and chairs, and behind it the bar.

He circled the pool to arrive at the bar, the tables there populated by as shady, shifty-looking a crowd as one might imagine. As Merard passed, every pair of eyes in the room flicked at him, for just long enough to take his number but not a second longer. Then they turned away, disinterested. They knew him by now.

Or so they thought.

He walked to the counter, behind which a man in a torn, dark shirt was wiping drinking glasses with a filthy rag. Vekel the Man, as they called him, gave Merard a quick glance complete with a little nod of his long-haired head, and then turned his attention back to his work.

Merard rested his palms on the counter and waited. Vekel continued to stare at the glass in his hand. He then raised it to observe it against the light of the lantern hanging above him. He nodded approvingly, set the glass down where others were piled up and grabbed another one.

"So," he said without raising his eyes, "you bring good news?"

"Aye," said Merard, reached into his pocket and produced a rose-colored gem in the shape of an elongated arrowhead. He placed the gem onto the counter.

Vekel the Man first finished wiping the glass in his hand, then, still without looking, grabbed the stone and pocketed it.

"Nice. Thanks."

He took another glass.

After a moment of silence save for the chatter of thieves and the squeak of cloth against glass, Merard raised his hands questioningly. "And?"

"And what?" asked Vekel, eyes on his work. "Your payment?"

Merard shook his head. "No," he said. "I believe it's about time."

Vekel looked him in the eye this time. "It's always about time, isn't it? But time for what, is the question." Sparkles of amusement danced about his weathered features, making Merard want to break his face.

Instead he bit his teeth together and let out a long hissing breath through his nose. "Time I get to see _him_."

The rag in his hand stopped moving, and Vekel the Man raised his chin a hint. His already narrow eyes contracted to a mere squint as he studied Merard.

"You think so, huh?" He grunted softly, and the rag started its work again. "A rather bold assessment, I'd say." His eyes were looking down again.

" _I_ 'd say," managed Merard through clenched teeth, "that this game's been going on long enough. I've been running your little errands for months now. Have I let you down one single time? Look, all I'm asking—"

"All you're asking," interjected Vekel, "is for a private audience with one of the most wanted men in all Tamriel. _The_ most wanted, quite likely. Say, maybe Gray Fox times a hundred. I'd say that's quite a request; so _excuse_ me my wariness."

"Now just—"

"Where did you find this?" Vekel asked, patting his pocket with the gem in it.

"In a private manor, northeast of Morthal."

"Any casualties?"

Merard pursed his lips. "None."

The tall guard's corpse he'd hidden so well no one would be finding it in a hundred years.

Vekel smiled a strange little smile. "As you say," he mused. "Tell me, then: what are the three guidelines of the Thieves Guild?"

As if anyone even followed those anymore.

Merard sighed. "'Never steal from another member of the guild, never kill anyone on the job, and don't steal from the poor'." He listed the guidelines mechanistically, then fanned out his arms in frustration. "Come on, what is this? Are we back to the basics, now? I'm telling you I've proved my worth more than enough. I'm ready to—"

"Did you know," Vekel cut in, "that I've been here since the Nightingale took over? Back then there was the twenty of us, myself included. Also if you include Mercer Frey, that treacherous swine." He spat on the floor besides him, then gestured at the room. "Now there's at least three times as many, and that's obviously excluding all the different associates. Now, how many, do you think, are there of those original ones in addition to me, huh?"

Merard prepared to guess a number but was once again cut off.

"None," said Vekel the Man. "Not a single one. Not sure what happened to all of them, to be perfectly honest. It's a risky trade, I suppose. A thief is caught and killed almost weekly in the streets of Riften alone."

_You're mistaking me for someone who cares_ , Merard thought, but kept his exterior impassive.

It didn't seem like Vekel was particularly concerned about the carings and not-carings of his audience.

"Yeah," he went on, "I've been here from the very beginning in a sense. Do you know what that means?

Merard simply shook his head that time.

"Not only does it mean," the bartender started, "that no one besides the Nightingale himself knows better what happens in here—the nuts and bolts of the operation—and no one better knows its secrets." He gave a smile devoid of all amiability. "It also means I can be either your very bestest of buddies . . . " The grin got even nastier. ". . . or your most bitter foe. _You_ make that decision."

If he was thinking of intimidating Merard, he should think again.

Vekel remained quiet, just stood there staring at him, as if expecting him to start groveling.

After staring back at the man for a few loaded seconds, Merard turned to leave. "This is obviously a waste of my time."

He got less than half a dozen steps down.

"He's waiting for you."

Merard stopped, then slowly turned back to face Vekel. The man wasn't smiling any longer.

"Here?"

The bartender snorted. "As if he'd show his face around here anymore. Here where everyone in Skyrim knows about?"

"Where, then?"

Vekel the Man waggled a beckoning finger. Merard walked back to the counter, half-prepared for another volley of horse-shit. Instead Vekel reached into his pocket, got out a tattered piece of paper, carefully unfolded it and held it out to Merard.

"What's that?"

"It's the instructions you've been given. To tell you when and where to meet him." He shook at the paper, urging to take it.

After a moment's hesitation, trying to smell the catch, Merard reached out to take the note.

Vekel pulled it back at the last moment. He shot Merard a grave look.

"And I don't think I need to emphasize this: if anyone follows you, it will be known. And then will you not only not be meeting the Nightingale, you won't be meeting anyone else in this world ever again, either. Understood?"

To be sure, these were nice friends he'd been making. Merard threw out his hand and snatched the paper. "Understood," he grunted.

"Good." Vekel smiled and picked up another glass. "Now, I believe you'd best be going."

"I believe you're right."

He devoured the details given in the message while walking toward the exit, hardly able to keep his hands from shaking. The awaited moment, finally here. One step closer to absolution.

_Justice, father_ , he thought, not caring to try and hold back the dark grin spreading on his lips. _It's coming._

The Orc at the door looked at him differently as he swept past. There was something unexpected in those dull, green eyes. Respect? Fear?

If so, the beast was wiser than he looked.

Merard nearly wanted to giggle.

_Yeah, it's coming really soon!_

 


	7. The Red Room

Ariela was doing her damnedest to keep her nerves from coming apart at the seams. She tried to steady her breathing, tell her heart to quiet down. After all, she'd just been saved. Right?

Meanwhile, the Nord woman responsible for the saving in question had gone on to ransack the Orc Grushnag's body. As she pulled a pouch off his belt and peered inside, her lips became compressed and her brow folded into a dissatisfied wrinkle. Shaking her head softly, she then tied the bag back up and attached it to her own belt. After that she went on patting the rest of the dead bandit.

Right. No thought for Ariela, then.

She probably shouldn't have been surprised. After all, she'd spent most of her life trying to be as unnoticeable as possible. Her humble choice of clothes and her plain hairstyle, her habit of hunching and mostly avoiding eye contact, even the simple fact that nature had seen it fit to provide her with such a slight frame, they had all served a purpose. And that was to keep her as far from the center of attention as possible. She'd always figured that the best way to really _see_ was to not be seen herself. She was the observer _,_ not the observed,no matter what some esoteric nitpickers had to say about the illusionary nature of such distinctions.

Still, after all the fear and anxiety she'd just suffered, facing the prospect of a slow, painful, and utterly purposeless death, and after holding her breath and grinding her teeth, fearing for the life of the one person potentially capable of getting her out of this, being ignored once again made her annoyance resurface.

She cleared her throat, loudly and perhaps just a touch over-dramatically.

But to no response. The Nord was busy with Grushnag's knife. She unsheathed it and inspected it against the dim light, then nodded in satisfaction, put it back in its sheath, and tucked it under her belt.

"Ahem, excuse me!" Ariela called, making sure it did _not_ sound like a plea.

The woman looked up, a confused frown on her face as though she were surprised to find herself not alone after all. Guess everyone was forgetting about Ariela today. Worse than usual, in fact. Was she under some kind of spell, maybe?

Finally the woman's expression brightened with remembrance. "Oh, right," she said. She stood up and started towards Ariela, taking out one of her swords.

Ariela's abdomen tightened back up somewhat. Had she made a mistake? What did she really know of this woman and her motivations? It was just as likely that—

The woman thrusted the blade toward the flinching Ariela. It cut into the ropes around the scholar's ankles, bringing about the sweet relief as the legs were once more allowed to part. Funny how she'd already gotten used to them cramped together, and could only now truly appreciate the immense freedom in having two separate legs. She could feel the blood in them starting to flow more freely, a not entirely pleasant sensation.

The Nord proceeded to cut off the rope around Ariela's wrists too, and this brought about equivalent alleviation. Ariela started to massage her sore extremities, groaned at the sensation of being able to stretch out her arms. Such simple things, but ones she'd never overlook again. Simple things. Like breathing, for instance.

She looked up to the woman and opened her mouth to thank her, but was met with an upheld hand.

The woman's attention was now at the shelf in the rock, the one with the walkway on it. "Hold up," she said, then sprinted up the ramp.

Ariela let out a sigh of frustration. Savior or not, there was no need to be so _rude_.

She got to her feet with a grunt and stretched. Her joints cracked and her entire body ached. All this from lying on the ground just a few hours? Perhaps it was time to get in shape.

"Aha!" she heard the woman exclaim. "That's more like it!"

But Ariela's attention was captured by Grushnag's head. She found herself stalking towards it, reluctantly at first, but curiosity ultimately claiming the upper hand.

She reached out with her foot and rolled the head around for a better look. The eyes stared at emptiness. It was a strange sight, really—so proud while sitting on top of those broad shoulders, but now just a piece of refuse, chucked aside and useless. Forlorn, somehow. The dead eyes had something of an introspective look in them, as if in no longer seeing to this world, they were turned to the one beyond. Perhaps it was that all of us—

"Look here; this may actually be worth something!"

The woman's crowing cut off Ariela's contemplation. She looked up at her stomping proudly down the ramp, carrying a sword with an emerald blade that—even though certainly not too knowledgeable of weaponry—even Ariela could tell was made of malachite. The blade gave away a certain sparkly shimmer, the telltale sign of an enchantment. Another leather pouch had also appeared on the woman's belt, one considerably fatter than the one she'd looted from the dead bandit chief.

The Nord brandished the glass sword in front of her face, examining it. "What do you think it does?" she said. "I'm thinking . . . Leeching." She made a couple quick jabs at an invisible foe. "I'm no expert on enchantments, but I'm pretty much positive it's neither Shocking nor Burning." She struck one more vertical arc in the air, completing it with a rather ostentatious battle cry. Then she looked at the blade and nodded appreciatively. "Yeah. Should fetch a decent price."

Standing in the brighter torchlight, Ariela got a better look at the woman. She guessed her to be in her late twenties to early thirties. A good head taller than the rather petite scholar, her long, sandy blond hair was tied into three braids, two running across the temples and a thicker one across the top of her head, converging at the back of her head into a ponytail, which hung down to her middle back. There was a slight bump on the bridge of her nose, and the area around the nose and eyes was scattered with faint freckles. With her broad face strewn with faded scars here and there, she was certainly not your standard fair maiden, but Ariela wouldn't by any means called the woman homely, either. Her strong, dexterous body was wrapped in beat-up brown leather armor.

The woman's most striking quality, however, were the eyes. They were piercing and lively, burning with deep cobalt. In them Ariela could see not simply strength but a certain hard-to-define spiritedness, a playful self-absurdness that would not be wavered by fear or by threat of a violent death. On the other hand, it also came off as a kind of arrogance: as if nobody was ever going to tell her anything, as if she didn't have to rely on or care about anyone but herself.

Ariela found herself strangely admiring the woman and being annoyed by her at the same time. But, truth be told, most of all she realized she felt envious. Suddenly she herself felt so weak—so cowardly.

The woman' eyes met with Ariela's and she frowned. Ariela became aware of her own facial expression and realized she was pouting.

"Yeah and you're welcome, by the way," the woman said.

Ariela felt a little twinge, but must have been feeling particularly confrontational today, for she heard herself say, "Oh, for what?"

The woman snorted. "Well, for saving your little ass, for starters."

"You know," Ariela said coldly, "I think I was handling myself just fine, thank you very much."

_Wait,_ w _hat?_

Despite all her better judgment, and the voice of reason she could hear screaming within her, her mouth and her body seemed to be on a rebellious streak of their own. She crossed her arms and defiantly beheld the now undeniably baffled-looking warrior.

The woman just shook her head, amused. "Yeah, I could see that. So . . . let me guess: ol' horkerbreath there was just about to trade your freedom for a kiss from a beautiful maiden? Did you promise he could slip in a little tongue?" She sneered. "No? I don't suppose, then, he was about to ask you to marry him? To become his outlaw bride and with him roam the land, spreading terror and despair wherever your dread boots trod the ground?" She chuckled softly. "Yeah, I didn't quite think so. Doesn't sound like him _at all._ "

Shame was rapidly spinning its ignominious web around Ariela's heart, but something in her—pride perhaps, or just sheer stubborn, pig-headed stupidity—simply wouldn't let up. So she continued to defiantly stare at the person who, all facts truthfully weighed, indeed had _"_ saved her little ass _"_ just a few short moments ago.

She seriously started to suspect she'd hit her head somewhere along the line.

The woman stared back at her for a while, annoyance amid the amusement, though the amusement part was seeming to wear thinner by the second. Her seemingly good humor only scarcely managed to conceal the fact that this was likely nother idea a jolly afternoon, either—or whatever time of day it happened to actually be.

But then her features softened. She waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, you can just cut the tough cookie act, kid. It doesn't become you at all." She regarded Ariela and sighed. "Look, I realize you're probably still in shock. I'm sure nothing like this has ever happened to you before and maybe your pride's just a bit bedraggled right now? But realize it or not, you'd managed to land yourself in some deep shit indeed. If it hadn't been for me . . . well, let's just say that what happy times you've had in your life would have been firmly behind you. You can just take my word on that."

Ariela could hardly deny the solid point the woman was making. She thought about Grushnag looming over her, that sneer and the foul breath. She could feel the threat coming through. On the other hand, she could also recall the budding sense of pity in her as she'd thought she saw something else, something . . . softer in the brutish bandit. And there was something profoundly sad about that severed head . . .

Still, it would be foolish to claim other than the obvious: her life had been forfeit.

Foolish indeed.

Her mouth callously deceived her better judgment. "Well, I don't know," it said. "It really didn't seem all _that_ bad".

There was an almost audible sigh from somewhere deep within her.

The bemused woman cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? You think so, huh?" She jerked her head in the direction of the corner where Ariela had been tied down. "Go and pull that chain over there, why don't you."

There was a pull-chain protruding off the wall there, one that had evaded Ariela's notice. She started towards it, but then hesitated.

The woman gave it another nod. "Go on," she prompted.

Ariela walked over, took a deep breath, grasped the pull chain and yanked it. There was a clicking sound and the crackle of gears turning. She couldn't suppress a wince, but no trap sprung, and nothing came flying at her. Instead a section of the wall rose up, revealing a passage behind it. It sloped downwards, taller than a man, with roots sticking through the roof. A torch hanging on the wall lit the way. There was another light flickering at the end of the passage.

Ariela gave the woman a look that she knew to be timid.

The woman just nodded toward the passage. "After you," she said.

Ariela cursed internally at her own jumpiness and faintheartedness. But she refused to be played for a fool. There was nothing down there that could pose any threat for her, she decided. After all, otherwise the woman would not so readily be pushing her to go there by herself. Right?

She pushed aside all hesitation and started down the slope. The passage smelt of dirt and decaying plants, with a hint of something metallic. The sour, metallic odor grew in strength as she approached the end of the short passage. A brazier was lighting up a small square room, its roof patched with more roots. All over the floor, in large dried-up blotches, there was . . . there was . . .

Blood.

Lots of it.

Ariela gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. The sickening, rancid smell of old, dried up gore was all over the room. But that wasn't all. All around lay scattered bones—thighbones, a skull, an entire humanoid rib cage, all of them red with blood. In the corner lay a lump of what could have only been flesh. The stench was overpowering, and the air thick with flies. The buzz of their little wings filled the air.

And these were no animal remains, either. A bloodstained wooden panel on the wall was dabbled with arrows, as if somebody had been used as a live target against it. Chains hung on the red-smeared wall, all around it blood dried as a mural of heedless cruelty. More was caked on the floor in front of it. A red-stained axe stuck up from a similarly decorated chopping block.

There was a repugnant feeling of murder about the place. It was all Ariela could do to hold her stomach. She turned around and ran back up the passageway. As she got back out to the main cavern—its previously stuffy air now like the most welcome and refreshing breath of open air—she doubled over and struggled to steady her breathing. Despite her stomach heaving once, she did not retch. A much appreciated show of strength, as she was sure there was nothing inside her to give out. Nothing besides bile.

After she had regained some of her composure, she lifted her gaze to meet the woman's. The Nord wasn't exactly smirking, but there was a certain twinkle to the corner of her eye that Ariela did not much care for.

"Well," the woman said, "find anything you like?"

After she'd battled down another retch, Ariela stared at the woman, aghast. "It was . . . it was . . . just . . ."

The woman regarded her impassively, leaning against a cracked-open barrel full of fruit and vegetables, munching on an apple. "Yeah," she said between chewing, "nice friends you were making."

The memory of the hungry gleam in Grushnag's eyes worked itself on the surface of Ariela's memory. That cruel, cutting edge of his voice. "He was just threatening me," she said quietly, "but I didn't think he would . . . would . . ."

She felt her stomach lurch again. She really _was_ a weakling, wasn't she?

The woman nodded towards Grushnag's severed head. "Him? Nah." She shook her head. "I only knew him by reputation, but if even half of it actually holds true, he actually followed some twisted kind of code of honor. A lout and a crook, make no mistake, but not a wanton butcher. His associates, on the other hand, they were a completely different matter." She gestured towards the two other corpses. "Those two vermin certainly seemed like the type. And the female who I killed on the outside?" She nodded determinedly, eyebrows raised "Oh yeah— _definitely_."

Ariela started. She couldn't remember much about the woman. A Nord. Tall and blonde, like most of them. Nothing particularly menacing about her. Quiet, not exactly quick to smile, but had by no means showed any signs of special tendencies for cruelty.

" _Her_?" Ariela asked. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," the woman said. "I've had some personal experiences with her before, and believe me when I say: a vicious bastard, that one."

Ariela didn't know what to say. After the initial surprise, she actually felt sort of silly. Did she expect devils to come with horns on their heads and the flames of Deadlands burning in their eyes?

While she was self-reflecting, the woman had finished her apple and was now picking at her teeth.

Looking at her, Ariela felt her earlier infantile bravado faded to an echo in the back of her mind.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely audible.

"Hmm," replied the woman, "come again?"

"Thank you." Ariela repeated a bit louder. "For, you know, saving my life and all."

The woman smiled and shrugged. "Oh, sure, sure. Nothing to it. Call it a lucky accident, as I obviously didn't come here for you."

Not that Ariela had really expected that to be the case, but she still felt a small jab of disappointment hearing it.

The woman gestured towards the remains of Grushnag. "It was actually that particular sack of manure I was after. To be more exact, that big, ugly head of his. And to be even _more_ exact, the nice, fat bounty the good folks of the Rift decided to pin on it.

Ariela stared at the woman, perplexed. The Nord then wiped her hand on her side, and stuck it out

"Name's Runa Fair-Shield. Adventurer, bounty hunter, and—occasionally—savior of the innocent."

Ariela shyly took the hand. "Ariela"

"And what might your occupation be?" the woman, Runa, asked. "Imperial Cave Inspector, perhaps?" Her smile was no doubt meant to be disarming.

"I'm a scholar," answered Ariela.

Runa raised a brow at that. "Are you, now? Interesting subject of study you've taken upon yourself. You specialize in the antisocial and detrimental ways of the reprobate, then?"

Ariela felt warmth spread on her cheeks. "In Daedra, actually," she muttered.

"Impressive," Runa said, though nothing about her tone exactly said she meant it. "Though I doubt there are any 'round here."

"Well, I didn't exactly plan this particular detour."

"No, I don't suppose you would have," Runa narrowed her eyes. "Not from around here, are you?"

Ariela shook her head. "Cyrodiil," she said. "As you might have guessed by now. I'm sure you've never heard of it, but Cyrodiil has Tamriel's finest and most esteemed—if not also the only—campus of the Scholar's Guild. That's where I'm from."

Ariela could feel the pride so instilled in her rise up as she spoke, and knew it was also coloring the tone of her voice. She only felt a little ridiculous about it.

"What brings a bright, young mind such as yourself to a place like Skyrim, then?" asked the taller woman. "Not exactly a refined folk, us Nords. Can't say I've heard much scholarship going on around here lately. Unless, of course, you count all the detailed study of anatomy we do." She was gesturing towards the dead bodies lying about. "Also in the bedchambers, of course." She winked an eye, making Ariela's cheeks burn even hotter.

"Well," Ariela said, clearing her throat. "As it happens, there has been a correspondence between us and the College of Winterhold for quite some time."

She paused, wondering how much of her mission she could afford to reveal. On the other hand, it wasn't like this warrior was likely to care either way.

"And, " she continued, "my tutor and the headmaster of the guild, Cicero Herennius, has actually been staying in Winterhold for a year now, and has summoned me to join him. That is the purpose for which I embarked upon this journey in the first place, you see. There was just this . . . unexpected turn in events."

"Yeah, I was gonna ask about that," Runa said. "So, what happened?"

Ariela felt ashamed again. "Well, there was this . . . man. He accompanied me on my journey across the mountains, and offered to see me safely to Riften—"

She paused, the other woman regarding her expectantly.

Ariela cleared her throat again. "And, well, it seems he sold me to the bandits."

Runa only raised an eyebrow a touch. "Yeah, well. That happens"

"It _does_?"

"Yeah, sure. Naive and reckless folk get themselves hijacked all the time. What was the man's name?"

"Ramiianus Rato," Ariela replied. Even uttering the name out loud churns her insides "You heard about him?"

Runa kept just a short silence, then stuck out her lower lip and shook her head. "Nope, can't say I have"

"Well, he's dead now," Ariela said. "Grushnag did away with him."

"Tragic loss, I'm sure."

Ariela shook her head in consternation. "But why would they have paid for me?" she asked. This was something that was greatly bothering her. "Someone like me doesn't pay off in ransom. Seems like quite a gamble."

She once again thought of Grushnag looming over her. _A young thing like you_. . . She shuddered.

Runa let out an amused grunt. "Well, of course. It's not just ransom you kidnap somebody for. There are, in fact, many people you can resell an abductee to. To name but a few: necromancers after fresh bodies, alchemists looking for test subjects, vampires short of cattle . . . And one mustn't forget plain ol' random deviants. Quite a prosperous trade, in fact!"

Runa looked level at Ariela, who was drained of all color by now, feeling a freezing cold in her innards.

"Of course," she continued without seeming to pick out the younger woman's eminent discomfort, "this lot might have just been after some late night amusement. They don't seem like the most financially savvy punch, if you ask me."

Ariela simply could not come up with anything to say to that. Actually, she felt she just might be sick. Runa only then seemed to notice Ariela's anxious state, and her features suddenly softened.

"Oh, come now," she said tenderly, laying a reassuring hand on Ariela's shoulder. "It's all right. You're safe now, nobody's gonna hurt you." She gave the shoulder a comforting little shake. "And don't beat yourself up: you couldn't have known. I happens even to the more experienced, you know. Just be thankful I came around when I did."

That did actually make Ariela feel a little better.

Still, that room . . .

"Hey, I know!" Runa exclaimed. "We should celebrate. I take you to Riften and buy you a drink, huh" She slapped Ariela on the back—a little too hard, and the petite scholar nearly stumbled.

"Oh no, I'm sorry. I really cannot." Ariela replied hurriedly. "No, I really must be on my way. In fact, I worry I may already be late because of this delay." She started to look around for her things. "No, I can't thank you enough for all your help already, but if you could just grant me the last favor of seeing me to Riften, there I can take a carriage and be on my way and out of your hair."

Runa shook her head. "You don't even have any idea what time it is, do you?"

It was true.

"No," Ariela admitted meekly.

"Well, the sun was just leaving its last farewells as the bandits guarding the cave were leaving theirs, so I'd say it'd be about getting dark by now." Runa paused. "Of course, nothing stops you from traveling overnight, but I'd bet my left and right blade you haven't had anything to eat for hours. Not to mention the tiredness you must be feeling. You've been through a lot, pup."

She regarded Ariela sternly. "Not to mention, there's more bandits about in the nighttime. Carriages _do_ get hijacked you know, especially after dark. You sure you want to risk that, Ariela? Getting abducted? _Again_?"

Ariela shivered. Suddenly she felt how exhausted she really was. Not to mention the gurgling hunger in her stomach. Surely Herennius could wait a few more until she'd gathered herself. She'd deserved that much, hadn't she? And the idea of more bandits . . . of necromancers, vampires . . . _late night amusement._

She gave a tired nod, and murmured, "I guess you're right."

That made Runa perk up. "It's settled then." she proclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Here's what we'll do: we go to Riften, I go collect my reward from the Jarl, and then we hit the local inn to get some food, ale, and after that, some much needed sleep. Then, in the morning, we'll get you on your way. That sound good? And don't worry about the expenses, I'll take care of it all!"

Ariela thought to mention that Runa was in fact holding her gold, as she'd just looted it off Grushnag's cadaver. But she figured that could wait. The Nord woman's joviality and magnanimity, on the other hand, made her a tad suspicious.

"That's very friendly of you," she said, caution in her voice. "But why would you do that? I mean, for a total stranger? You've already helped me more than I can ever repay for."

Runa waved a dismissive hand. "Oh really, no need to feel that way. I told you saving your hide was just a lucky side-effect. You know, right place, right time and all that. Don't take me for a callous cad, however; I do sympathize with a fellow traveler. I _am_ glad if I can help, and I feel that buying you a dinner and a bed is the least that I can do." She grinned. "And, after all, with the bounty and the loot from tonight, I quite feel like celebrating. I could use some company."

Ariela was aware her suspicion was showing, but she couldn't shake it off just yet.

Runa stepped closer. "Look. Truth is, I like you. You got some spirit. Underneath that mousy exterior of yours, I feel you're probably pretty fierce. And despite your evident naivety and your youthful, pouty seriousness—which, I may add, _does_ have its own charm—I feel you and I have something in common. You kind of remind me of a younger me."

She placed her arm around Ariela's shoulder, the tips of her fingers landing on the side of the left breast. The way the hand seemed to immediately get comfy there made Ariela feel uneasy. And was that a slight _caress_ she was feeling?

She pulled herself free and looked Runa in the eye. "You didn't have any sort of . . . _alternative payment_ in mind, did you?"

The older woman threw her hands in the air, suddenly looking very defensive. "Nothing you're not comfortable with," she said. "Just some good chow, a mug of ale . . . that sort of stuff." She gave her a smile most genial. "You know, good times."

Ariela narrowed her eyes. "Between _friends_ , right?"

Runa nodded. "Between friends."

"And you won't . . . try anything?"

"Like I said, nothing you're not comfortable with."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"You _swear_?"

Runa raised a hand. "On my mother's life, I swear."

Ariela nodded, feeling somewhat satisfied. It was not like she didn't trust this woman, even after the short time she'd known her. Still—better safe than sorry. She couldn't say she was very learned about the ways of the Nords, or those of bounty hunters, but from what she could gather it seemed to be best to be as unambiguous with them as possible.

So she decided to take the woman up on her offer.

"Well, shall we, then?" said Runa blithely.

They gathered up Ariela's things and then started out of the cavern. Ariela felt an immense relief leaving that place, and was looking forward to some good food and some rest. She might even go against her ways and have a mug of ale or mead. Just this once.

Still, as they were making their way out of the cave, in the back of her mind Ariela found herself wishing that the warrior woman actually _did_ have a mother, and that she indeed was alive and well.

 


	8. The Welcoming Committee

Quintus had to stop and steady himself after setting his foot on solid land once more. He wasn't sure if it was the effects of the alcohol or just his age, but his head felt dizzy now that the ground underfoot suddenly stood still. Getting accustomed to change, any change, had become much more difficult for him. He was getting slower, more jaded. That was age's doing, for sure.

A cold ocean breeze tore at the tails of his long, gray overcoat, flapped the pennons of his ship, the hems of its hoisted sails. Where his villa sat back home, nested between soaring hills at the coast of Daggerfall, the wind usually died down come nightfall. He'd come to love that sight of still darkness, the vast endlessness of the night.

He stifled a sigh. Part of him would much rather be home. But that was the part of him that would never win him back his station, so it was the part he'd have to drown out. Let the ocean wash over it.

Casting about, he saw a young-looking officer standing alone at the edge of the pier, two soldiers at attention a few paces behind him. As Quintus met the officer's eye, the man took a few enthusiastic steps up. "Sir," he said, "I take it you are Chief Inspector Lex?"

Quintus felt a small smile appear on his lips at hearing the title. He nodded.

The soldier straightened himself. "Welcome to Skyrim, sir. I am Captain Lylvieve, here to see you safely to the city."

A Breton. Of course they'd send a Breton.

Quintus looked around at the all but deserted imperial pier, and at the two soldiers standing rigidly in the blowing wind like a pair of frozen-stiff reeds. Further away, the commercial harbor was busy as he imagined it ever being. "Well, so much for the welcoming committee, then," he muttered.

A look of discomfort flashed on the face of the young officer, and he shifted just a fraction. Obviously he'd been put into a position he didn't much relish being in. "Sir?" he said. It was less like a question and more like a desperate plea for Quintus to say something further to disarm the situation.

Well, Quintus was nothing if not magnanimous.

"Never you mind, lad," he said with a wave of hand. "I'm quite used to it. Let's just get going, why don't we."

So what if they weren't giving him a proper welcome? He was too eager to get out of the wind to be offended by the all too obvious insult. He could also feel the alcohol slowly wearing off and could use some refreshment.

"Yes sir!" the man said, visibly relieved.

As they started walking, Quintus took a closer look at the Captain, and could see he wasn't actually quite as young as he'd initially come across. Small, still nearly imperceptible grooves had started to appear all across his features, particularly around the mouth and the eyes. He was old enough carry his rank respectably, but still too young to quite command a real air of authority.

Lylvieve noticed Quintus' stare, and once more looked inconvenienced. "Sir," he started, "General Rikke sends her regrets that she could not be here to personally welcome you. You see, she had to—"

Quintus sharply raised his hand to silence the man. "Please. Spare me the excuses. I've about heard each one in every book imaginable, and I am not eager to have my memory refreshed; nor to find out they've come up with yet another one."

The Captain didn't look pleased, but at least had the good sense to shut his mouth. So the rest of the trek went in a most welcome silence.

The walk from the harbor area up to the main gate did not show anything having much changed over the years. The small farm outside of the city may have looked a bit more beaten down than it had the last time, the sails of the windmill looking like they could use some maintaining. But other than that, things seemed pretty much in order. The outfits of the guards were spotless, their postures straight. The cobblestones of the street leading to the city had been well kept, unlike some of the weed-ridden roads you saw back in High Rock. All and all you got the sense of law and order. So perhaps the High Queen truly did keep things in order here.

Then, as they walked through the outer gate and looked at the sturdy wall of the city, Quintus was reminded of the one thing that had pleased him most upon his last visit. Solitude, even as a Nord dwelling, carried itself with the overall dignity one had come to expect from an Imperial city. From high up on its throne at the top of the province, it was a worthy city to defend the honor of the Empire against any forces that were looking to desecrate and disturb it.

And gods knew that was a thing sorely in need of defending these days.

They walked through the inner gate, and the silence of the streets greeted him. The stores had closed up by now, and it being a cold evening, people were mostly staying indoors. The last hub of activity was the local Tavern, the aptly named the Winking Skeever, in front of which a couple drunkards were having a heated argument. The guard standing nearby eyed the commotion with apparent disinterest, though she was likely ready to spring at them any moment things got out of control.

That's how you knew true order, Quintus thought: when you didn't feel the desperate need to constantly control every detail. True control left the citizens some leeway, just enough to let them imagine themselves free. Quintus had heard rumors of abuses of power in Skyrim these days, but so far nothing he'd seen gave him any cause for displeasure. Everything seemed to be running according to the time-tested Imperial edict.

Of course, cynical man that he was, Quintus always left himself room for disappointment.

They climbed the stairs up to Castle Dour, the fortress that was the Imperial legion's headquarters in the province, sitting its guard above the city, set apart from it by separate walls. Quintus was guided straight to the Emperor's Tower, reserved for the use of sovereign himself upon his visit and, obviously, anyone high enough to deserve the honor. Last time there had been something of a debate whether or not Quintus qualified, but apparently that was not the case this time around. This also pleased him.

And, sure enough, he was showed to the quarters intended for the Emperor himself, rather than one of the lesser bedrooms. The treatment so far was courteous enough to almost make him believe what the Captain had said, that the General had a genuine reason not to have seen him personally.

Almost.

After the Captain and the soldiers carrying Quintus' travel chest had left, he sat at the side of the large, luxurious bed and recapped what he knew.

Out of the two remaining provinces the Empire still held—miscounting the northern Hammerfell, which had become an unhappy Imperial protectorate after the Dominion's invasion in the south—the post-civil war Skyrim had ended up becoming the one more stable and unified, what with the old kingdoms of High Rock ever teetering on the brink of discord. But the downside of its ability to carry its own weight had been it getting increasingly self-reliant, behaving at times virtually like an independent realm.

The High Queen Elisif the Fair had proven, it was said, to be a reliable subordinate of the Empire and therefore was trusted to pretty much make her own way in keeping her domain in order. But this came with certain drawbacks. For one, it was said that she had shown despotic, even downright cruel, methods in keeping the order. There were those who blamed her for over-reliance on fear in keeping her subjects in order, for inflicting cruel and unusual punishments for fairly minor offenses. _Elisif the Unfair_ some had dubbed her. Such talk, however, could have just as easily been nothing but fabrication meant to discredit her rule.

But whatever the truth of the matter, whatever choices Elisif had made in her governance, they seemed to work. There had been no word of any serious attempts to repeat the rebellion of Ulfric Stormcloak, no vibrant resistance to the Imperial power. As long as that continued to be the case, Quintus saw no reason to interfere with whatever method she found most effective in keeping the status quo, despotic or not.

Another thing the High Queen had been blamed for, however, was that while keeping the order among citizens, she'd simultaneously given free rein to the criminal underworld. If one took the word of her critics, her governance rested upon the unholy union of Imperial arms and the supposedly united criminal syndicates. That meant the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, now often jointly called simply either the Guild or the Brotherhood, said to be led by the mysterious man called the Nightingale. The Empire certainly was interested in getting its hands on him, but had so far not done much to accomplish this.

This connection, more than anything, worried Quintus. If it was truly the Dark Brotherhood behind the assassination of Titus Mede II, then it would not bode well for the local ruler to be protecting them. That was the part in dealing with her that he dreaded the most. But he would not tolerate any resistance on her part, any attempt to keep him from doing his work. If it turned out it was this Nightingale person who had anything to do with the assassination, Quintus would get him. He would use all the authority of the Emperor at his back to scare the uppity woman back into order, if he had to.

Though, he had to wonder . . .

He'd already left the province by the time the new emperor had made his first visit here, so Quintus only had rumors to go by. But those rumors were very persistent. According to them, Elisif had given the new Sovereign a very warm welcoming indeed. The word was that she seduced the young, callow Emperor, enchanting the poor fellow with her admittedly alluring fleshly charms. Heck, might have been the first time the boy had been with a woman for all anyone knew.

That, in itself, would not have mattered too much. After all, what emperor did not sample from the fountains available to him? It went without saying that was one of the privileges of a ruler; who was there to tell him no? But the controversy surrounding this particular bedding stemmed from the fact that about nine months later the High Queen had given birth to her first and only child: a son whose features were said to curiously combine the Nordic and the Cyrodilic features. Though this was mostly just another rumor, for the boy had been kept curiously hidden from view. That, of course, had only served to feed the gossips regarding his sire all the more.

And Quintus for one suspected that this clandestine love-child had been at least partly the reason behind the unique sort of recognition Elisif had seemed to enjoy in the Imperial eyes. For though a puppet she may have been, he had no doubt that she was a very clever one at that. He eyed the bed on which he was sitting. Could be the High Queen and the new Emperor had fornicated on this very same mattress. The thought made him wrinkle his nose in distaste, and he stood up. He felt that he might just have to put the thing to good use himself to get over the image, to be able to get some sleep. He thought about summoning Colin.

But first he needed something to drink.

Looking around, he could not see any bottles laying around, so he went to rummage the cupboards. A very particular man, he would not accept just any old swill. It would either have to be either quality wine of respectable vintage or, preferably, brandy—either Colovian or even plain Cyrodilic would do. To his dismay, though, all he could find was a dusty bottle of a common vintage of Surilie Brothers.

Now this, if something, was a true insult!

Slamming the cupboard door shut in disgust, Quintus stood up and marched toward the door. He would chew out whoever was responsible for equipping the rooms, but not before he'd found himself a bottle of something he could actually get down.

He was just about to open the door, when there was a knock on it. Peeved, he yanked it open. Behind stood the earlier officer—Lynielle, was it? The man looked taken aback by the unexpectedly swift answer.

"Uh, Sir," the officer said after recovering sufficiently, "the General will see you now."

Quintus let a slightly raised brow serve as a reply.

The man went somewhat red, a very unsoldierly—not to mention _unofficery_ — response. "Um, if that would please you."

Not exactly the thing that would _please_ him just now, but it would have to do. Surely Rikke would have something for his thirst, at least.

"Yes, yes," he replied. "Fine. Show me the way."

They walked out the Emperor's Tower and crossed the courtyard to the Castle proper. In the antechamber Quintus was greeted by the welcome sight of Imperial banners—the black symbol of the Dragon God Akatosh against burgundy background—hanging on all the walls and atop the entrance to the main command center. He was led through the command center to an adjacent room where General Rikke was waiting, sitting behind a humble desk riddled with papers and books.

The aging general's coarse hair was combed back at the temples, where its strawberry-blond color had been entirely swallowed up by gray; and time was invading the rest of it with the same rapid advancement with which it was bringing down the defense lines of her hard-cast features. Her olive skin was turning sallow, and liver spots had infiltrated among the freckles scattered about the area around her proud, hawkish nose. But the stare of those hooded hazel eyes with a careerful of poorly-slept nights sagging underneath them was as firm as ever.

This was a woman clinging tenaciously to her position, if Quintus ever saw one. People of power, he had found, were among the last to admit to the limitations of their age.

_And I should know._

Rikke stood up as he entered, on her face the sort of smile you could count on not hiding behind it any overly warm sentiment. Quintus knew the sort of expression, pasted on his in turn.

"Chief Inspector," the General said, offering her hand for him to squeeze. "Good to see you again."

Lie number one.

"Likewise," said Quintus, taking the hand. Her grip was brutishly firm.

He couldn't believe that they elevated a bloody _Nord_ to the position of a General.

"Please, sit."

Quintus pulled a chair under him, looked around searchingly.

"A drink?" asked the General, as though guessing his sentiment. She reached into the drawer of the desk, and produced a bulbous, green bottle. Colovian Brandy, thank the gods.

Quintus smacked his dry lips. "Might as well."

After filling two glasses, General Rikke leaned back. "I take it your trip went alright?"

Quintus took a long sip, emptying the glass halfway. He concealed an exhale of relief and set the cup calmly on the desk. He locked eyes with Rikke. "You and I both know you don't care how my trip went. Let's just cut to the chase, shall we?"

Not appearing to be the least bit chagrined by the Chief Inspector's blunt reply, the General nodded her head contemplatively. "Fair enough," she said. "Let's talk about chasing, then. Now, I know nothing about why the High Queen summoned you, but I'm clever enough to make an educated guess."

It was not often you met "clever", "educated", and Nord in the same context.

"Yes," replied Quintus frigidly. "And it's none of your concern. What I want from you—" He reached out for the glass, took another sip and set it back. "—is to know what to expect."

Rikke raised a thin eyebrow. "Expect?"

"Here," said Quintus, motioning with his hand around the room, "in Skyrim. Fill me in on their current standing regarding the Empire."

He said _their_ , as if this woman were not one of them. As if she could truly ever be one the Imperials.

Rikke shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. Skyrim is a loyal part of the Empire. The people have not shown any sign of rebellious sentiments for two decades. The High Queen Elisif is as loyal a servant of the Empire as you could hope for. I have personally made sure—"

Quintus silenced the woman with a harshly uplifted hand. This was the part where she would paint a picture of herself as the backbone of the province, talk about her many accomplishments and assure him of her steadfast loyalty . . . blah blah blahdy- _bloody_ -blah.

"Yes, yes," he said. "I'm sure you have. Tell me, then—" He emptied the glass and slid it across the desktop for Rikke to refill. "—why did Tullius want _you_ to be the military governor of Skyrim?"

Rikke nearly spilled the brandy she was pouring. She looked up to meet his probing stare, a small frown on her forehead. "Excuse me?"

Quintus shrugged. "It's an innocent enough question. Why not a more—well, _traditional_ candidate?"

Rikke slid the filled glass back to Quintus—a touch harshly, he thought. "Someone not a Nord, you mean?"

"My query stands to reason," replied Quintus. "That position is as a rule traditionally filled by someone from Cyrodiil."

"What of General Hakar commanding this very post during the Oblivion crisis? Or Marshal Nelvilo in Morrowind in the Third Era? Or General Jend in Daggerfall around the same time?"

"Exceptions to the rule; each with a good reason behind it. I'm asking: what is the reason behind you in particular?"

The General squinted her eyes, and the corners of her mouth twisted into a hint of a humorless smile. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

Quintus returned the woman a smile of his own. "I'm not in the habit, no." He leaned his elbows on the desktop and steepled his fingers under his chin. "So?"

Rikke was nodding, her lips pursed. "Alright, fair enough." She leaned back on her chair. "It was General Tullius' call, his specific wish. And _I_ 'm not in the habit of questioning my superior's—"

"Please," Quintus interrupted. "Spare me the false modesty."

"Alright, then," replied Rikke without hesitation. "General Tullius needed someone he could trust to take up after him. Someone who had pretty much the same experiences with the province as he did. He and I had been through a lot in a short time. We shared a vision of how to best run the Imperial army in these conditions. He'd come to rely on my explanations of the local customs and ideas. We shared . . . the same knowledge of certain details; of the circumstances and, well, _occurrences_ during the Rebellion."

Quintus cocked a brow. "Secrets?"

"If you want to put is so, yes. " She paused. " _State_ secrets, that is."

"So, you and him—you didn't . . . "

Rikke's frown was deeper now. "If you imply that—"

"I don't _imply_ anything, General. I deduce and I infer; I take into account and I exclude. That is all."

"It's almost as if you're investigating me." The General finished her drink and poured herself another.

Quintus smiled. "Well, I can assure you that's not the case." _Now_ that _would be a dead end._

"Then why do you—"

"I'm simply curious by nature. That is why I'm in the position that I am."

A stretch of silence descended between them then. Quintus finished his second drink, offered the empty glass for a refill. They drank, silence gaining momentum. The sounds of their swallows, of the chairs creaking underneath them. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, and inside, the fire in the corner crackled. Quintus could hear his own breathing, getting heavier by the drink.

He was stalling on purpose and at the same time was trying to think of where to take it next. There wasn't actually much he wanted from the woman. This was about more than just acquiring information: this was also about asserting himself in her eyes. After all, he was the Emperor's representative, as close to the Ruler himself as one could be in his absence. And what was she? A peasant who got lucky, that's all. She might have been elevated above her rightful station, but she should still know her place.

Unfortunately, though, Rikke showed little sign of getting the message. She seemed content waiting for him to take the next step. After all, she had nowhere to go, this was her home. _She_ didn't have anything she needed from _him_. And as the realization of that slowly started to dawn on him, Quintus' mood took a sudden turn to the sour.

Finishing his third drink in few rapid gulps, he was really starting to feel it. He decided he'd need to slow down, and set his glass right at the edge of the desk. Rikke took the hint and did not try to offer a refill.

"Alright," he said, the consonants threatening to tangle into each other. "I've no need to call into question Tullius' wishes."

"I'm glad," replied Rikke curtly.

There didn't seem to be any victories to be won here. _Might as well cut to the chase._

Quintus sighed. "Tomorrow, presumably, I will meet with the High Queen Elisif. And I've no doubt she'll bring along that _witch_ of hers."

Discomfort flashed across Rikke's features as well as she nodded.

"I simply want to be prepared. Give me the skeletonized summary of what has happened here ever since I last left. Don't hesitate to leave out the inconsequential, but do include anything I might benefit from."

Rikke sighed in turn. "If you've got a while."

Quintus smiled a tired smile, fanning out his arms. "I've got nothing but time."

"Alright, then. Do you eat?"

Quintus shook his head.

"Well," Rikke said, "I trust it you don't mind if I get a bite."

"I've a feeling it doesn't matter whether I mind it or not."

Saying nothing, the General walked out.

While she was gone, Quintus stared at the bottle at her side. He was doing his damnedest not to reach out and replenish his drink. He had to keep sober enough for Rikke to give her presentation, simply _had_ to. Over the years, he'd become a regular master at covering up, at appearing more sober than he was. But should he pass out in Rikke's chair, well, that would make the truth quite obvious. He couldn't just file _that_ under travel weariness.

Yet, as the General was taking her sweet time, his mouth was getting dryer and dryer.

_Surely I've waited long enough_ , he thought then.

So he reached out and grabbed the bottle.

 


	9. The Shady City

It had indeed started to get dark by the time Ariela and Runa exited the cave. A bitter chill wind howled through the swiftly descending gloom, and the young scholar had to tuck her tunic tighter. Last Seed was drawing to an end, which here in the north meant the nights getting cooler. It felt like the night was going to be quite cold, and, same as in the morning, Ariela found herself wishing for warmer attire.

She'd actually worn a good, warm fur overcoat for their trek across the Velothi Mountains, but had offered it as a kind of payment for the Khajiit merchants for their trouble. They'd refused it at first, insisted on having helped her purely out of their sense of gratitude towards the Guild; whatever that meant. But even despite their adamant resistance, she had persisted, and—as it so often was with her—eventually gotten her way.

What had felt noble and right just then, seemed positively idiotic now.

Runa looked at Ariela now starting to shiver, and shook her head. She bent down next to the female bandit on the ground, her head barely attached to her neck by just a few threads of sinew. She had those unseeing, staring eyes that Ariela had already so started to dislike. The bandit-corpse wore a warm looking coat, complete with a fluffy fur collar. A nice coat indeed, were it not for the bloody stains on it.

Runa unceremoniously tore the coat off the body, then held it out to Ariela. "Well?" she grunted, while the scholar could only stare at the blood already half dried.

"There's blood on it," Ariela declared.

"And? There's blood on pretty much everything. Loads of it in you too, but that doesn't seem to bother you too bad."

"It's . . . different," was all Ariela could manage. Too cold for astute.

"Well, have it your way," Runa said, and was about to toss the coat over the side of the cliff at their left.

"No, wait!" Ariela held out her hand. After all she'd already seen and been through, perhaps it was too late to get all persnickety.

Runa seemed content with that.

As she pulled the coat on, instantly feeling the warmth start to return to her limbs, Ariela decided she could probably live with a few bloodstains. And once she had her wits back, she noted that the landscape around them, while cold, was truly beautiful. The crisp air together with the last fading light of the set sun highlighted the view of the surrounding mountains, coloring them azure and gold, bringing out the scene like the brushstrokes of the most masterful and magnificent painter. The moons were both out. The red Masser was looking really enormous tonight; even larger here, it seemed, than back home. The smaller gray Secunda resided right underneath, seeming to balance the larger moon on top of it.

The entrance of the cave was located on a mountainside. To the left opened up a view to a valley a couple hundred feet down, with a road running through it which Ariela guessed to be the one leading to Riften; the one she'd been on earlier. A heavy waterfall rushed down beside them. Its roar in the open air sounded musical to her ears when compared with the sullen, trapped trickling of the underground stream she'd been listening to in the cavern.

Runa started pacing down the path leading from the entrance. Ariela followed hurriedly, her knapsack uncomfortably uneven against her back. They'd left in a rush and she hadn't had the time to pack her books very efficiently. In fact she'd just barely had time to gather them up, scarcely managing to fit them all back in. Runa had raised an eyebrow at her efforts but had said nothing, nevertheless making it obvious she'd thought it a fool's errand, dragging such a large array of something other than weapons half across Tamriel. Over the mountains, no less.

 _Of course_ she wouldn't understand.

Three horses were waiting a few paces down the slope, huddled together against the cold. They shuffled around nervously and regarded the nearing women with suspicious eyes. Runa stuck her thumb and index finger in her mouth and gave a sharp whistle. The horses gave no reaction, but some seconds later a fourth horse galloped up to them. This one was as white as the snow, taller than the other ones and certainly better groomed. Its muscular haunches and steadfast eyes gave it a certain air; like it was well aware of its majestic aura, and was under no confusion about its higher standing among its equidae kind.

The horse stopped next to Runa and snorted in way that sounded proud and servile at once. There was something else in it too . . . _tenderness_ , maybe?

Runa patted the horse's brawny side. "Hey there, Frost," she said and gestured towards Ariela. "See, I made a new friend."

The horse actually appeared to look at Ariela, and she could almost swear it gave a little nod.

Though not really one for horses, Ariela found herself quite impressed by the august animal. "Frost?" she asked. "It's called Frost?"

" _He_ ," Runa said poignantly. "And yeah, he is. What of it?"

"It's a good name," Ariela said, nodding. "Really . . . fitting."

Runa nodded also, stroking the horse's neck. "Sure is. Named after his sire. A good line: strong, trustworthy, and loyal to the marrow. The best friend a girl could ask for."

Ariela shyly offered her hand towards Frost. The stallion cocked his head curiously but did nothing to prevent her from stroking its velvety muzzle. It always surprised her, the warmth that horses emitted. She found herself smiling at the animal. It— _he_ seemed to possess wisdom in the way only a few people did. Perhaps it was the animals that—

"Alright," Runa interrupted, pulling at Frost's reins and causing the horse to pull his large head away from Ariela. "Enough making friends, we'd better be on our way. We don't want to find out the old bonehead had more friends—sorry, _associates—_ than I've factored in. Plus I'm about getting ready for some drinks. That old hag of a Jarl better still be seeing people today; I do _not_ want to have to see her tomorrow morning with old mead in my head. It's going to be bad enough as it is."

Ariela looked at the other horses, who were still cautiously gazing towards them. They seemed to take to Frost even less than they had to the women.

"Should I ride one of these, then?" Ariela asked Runa, as the woman pulled herself on Frost's back.

Runa looked at the horses, then at Ariela. Then she tossed her head back and gave a dirty cackle. "Oh yeah, sure. Try to mount a bandit horse, be my guest! Should be a little extra entertainment for the evening."

Ariela felt a pang of shame but kept tight-lipped. "Well, am I to walk then?" she asked indignantly.

Runa rolled her eyes. "No, dummy." She patted on Frost's rump. "Hop on, you ride with me."

Ariela thought not to argue any further. She walked beside Frost and—clumsily, it had to be admitted— climbed on right behind Runa.

As she placed her hands at Runa's sides, the older woman turned her head, mouth twisted into a sly, one-sided smile. "Come now, no need to be shy. You can put your arms _around_ me. In fact, you'd better—'less you wanna find yourself flinging off before we're even properly on our way."

Despite feeling awkward, Ariela did as told. Through her armor, Runa's body felt nearly as muscular and tough as that of Frost, and there was some of that same sense of powerful heat emitting from her, too. They really seemed to be carved of the same wood, the horse and the woman.

"All right, then," Runa called cheerfully. "Shall, we?"

At that, she slapped the reins, and Frost catapulted into a gallop. Ariela had not only to wrap her arms tight lest she be thrown off, but also stifle a scream or two. Not that she'd never been on horseback before, but never on such a strong steed—a warhorse, without doubt—and never at such a blinding speed.

Frost had dashed down the mountainside in no time, and soon his hooves were beating on the cobblestone of the Imperial road. Another inconvenient aspect of riding with such speed then became obvious to Ariela, as her buttocks were soon pleading for mercy. They went half over the rim of the saddle, and her tailbone kept slamming against Frost's laboring muscles. She would certainly have bruises tonight.

"Do we have to go so fast?" she yelled. But the wind howled in her ears so loudly that she could hardly hear her own words.

"What?" asked Runa.

"Can you slow down?"

"Why?"

"Just slow down!" She seasoned her words by pounding at Runa's side with her palm.

Runa pulled at the reins and Frost slowed down to a temperate canter. Ariela's abdomen instantly relaxed and she could ease up her hold on Runa a bit. Though she still made sure to keep a firm hold.

"Thank you," she said.

At a more moderate speed Ariela actually quite enjoyed the sense of freedom brought about by the brisk open air swooshing in her ears and the scenery rapidly changing in front of her eyes. The night was turning out to be gorgeous, and the proceeding autumn had this rich depth to it she'd always loved. The sweetness of the mixed smells of wet dirt and decomposing leaves, the sharp edge in the breeze as a promise of coming winter. For some these were but signs of death, and for such people seemed to bring about feelings of melancholy and even despair, but in Ariela they'd always just invigorated her sense of really being _alive_.

She breathed deep to take in a lungful of the fragrant, frigid air.

Skyrim had a certain harsh beauty about it she'd not anticipated; this even despite having read several literary accounts of it. The northern end of Cyrodiil might have had its mountains, but in comparison the ones on this side of the border had a completely different flavor. They somehow carried themselves in a more dignified, more self-contained, almost haughty, manner. The land itself felt, if not _hostile_ exactly, certainly not accommodating, either. Here you made it on your own or you perished. Nothing would lend a hand and no one would pay you any mind, except enough to consume your remains once your spirit left you. Or perhaps just a little before.

The landscape in the hold—like they called them here, as opposed to the _counties_ of Cyrodiil—of Rift was fairly bare: scattered patches of yellowing grass; some fern, thistle, and wild rose; trees mostly birch and pine with an odd juniper or spruce here and there, the latter particularly on the side of the mountain rising to their left. The leaves were in hues of yellow and orange, as autumn had progressed further here than it had back home. The ground already had a light, golden coat over it.

For someone who'd spent her entire life in the same place it all felt strange, but at the same time so exciting. Ariela would never have thought that a simple change of scenery could make such a difference, that it could make you feel so alive, sofree _._

A sudden howl made her jump, then. To the right a pack of three wolves stood at the edge of the road, growling at them as they passed. She found her hold on Runa tighten up, though the woman herself seemed to pay no attention. The Nord's disinterest was shared by Frost.

 _Weakling_ , Ariela thought in frustration.

Just then the feeling of spacious joy abandoned her, chased away by the memory of terror. That room, the blood and its putrid smell. Beyond the obvious—the sense of brutality and violence—was something more, however. She kept coming back to the look on Grushnag's face. Not the hungry, brutal, bloodlust she'd seen, disturbing surely in its own right, but the other even more disconcerting one: curiosity.

Why that should prove to be so upsetting was almost ridiculous. It was, after all, curiosity above all that had driven Ariela all her life. Why should signs of it suddenly be so threatening when seen on the face of a murderous bandit?

Perhaps it was simply because it had had no place to be there. Those books should draw the interest of almost no one, let alone a barely literate thug whose motivation no doubt rarely went far beyond making some coin or gutting some unfortunate adversary. But Ariela had seen the look on his face: like he'd actually been looking for something. For all her scorn at his feeble mentality, she had to admit she'd seen another kind of flicker in his eyes—one of understanding, or at the least a very earnest attempt at it.

It might have seemed like a whole lot of nothing, but her instinct was warning her of something. And she was accustomed to—in fact taught to—always to listen to her instincts.

"Runa?" she said.

"Hmm?" replied the Nord absently.

"There's still one thing I don't understand."

"Just one? You should consider yourself lucky; at such a young age, no less. Most folks go through their entire lives without ever understanding just about anything. Are you sure you want me to clarify it for you, thought? Might take out the rest of the mystery in life."

Ariela sighed quietly. "I'm not in the mood for jests just now."

"And we've been having such goofy, laughter-filled times so far!"

Ariela remained silent, and Runa seemed to get the message.

"Sorry," she said quietly. "Bad habit. Do go on."

"It's just . . . if it's like you say, and Ramiianus was just some small-time crook leading unsuspecting travelers to be hijacked by bandits . . ."

"Yeah."

"And if Grushnag's gang was really just going to, ah, _retail_ me; or, like you said, get their, um, _amusement_ out of me . . ."

Just uttering the words made her throat cramp up.

"Yeah."

"Well, It's just that—well, there's just something about it that doesn't sit right with me."

"Well it figures," Runa grunted. "There'd be something seriously wrong with you if there _wasn't_ , I recon."

Ariela shook her head. "Not what I mean."

She let out a sigh of frustration. _How to explain this?_

"So you think there might be something more to it, then?" Runa asked.

"Well, maybe it's nothing, but my instinct . . . I mean, take Grushnag for example."

"I'd rather not."

"He seemed like your typical dumb thug, right."

"To a tee, in fact."

"But if that was the case, why was he going through my things; and not just that, but why did he actually seem to take an interest in it."

"Your stuff?" Runa asked.

"My books. They're not anybody's idea for late-night entertainment, I assure you. Serious, periphrastic, and _very_ dry stuff. You know, put-you-to-sleep dry."

"I can imagine."

"But he seemed interested."

"Hmm, curious," Runa muttered.

Ariela started. Could it be she'd been right? Maybe Runa could see it too, now. After all, she was experienced in this kind of stuff. She would know if something was awry. She could feel her heart suddenly pick up pace again.

And when Runa remained silent, she got restless. "Well?" she prompted.

"Well, what?" asked Runa.

"What do you think it means?"

"What does _what_ mean?"

"I just told you about my concerns, and you seemed to imply you thought it strange too."

"Did I?" Runa sounded perplexed. Was she being obtuse on purpose?

"You said you find it curious." Ariela said, frustrated.

"Oh!" Runa exclaimed, like she'd just finally gotten a joke. "No, I meant _he_ must have been curious. You know, reading your boring books. Maybe he was a just a misunderstood scholar deep inside." She shrugged.

Ariela gave a deep sigh. This was not going anywhere.

Runa seemed to sense her frustration. "Look, kid," she said calmingly. "Not everything is a big mystery. That's one of the first things you start learning when you live this life. Sometimes the most obvious answer is the right one. Almost every time, in fact."

Surely she meant her words to help Ariela, but they did nothing of the like. If anything, she felt a little indignant. As if she was the one in need of such a basic lesson—after all, _she_ was the scholar here.

But she decided to drop it for now. Probably she was just being paranoid. Probably.

They arrived at the wall of the city of Riften. A fortress of dark and moss-covered stone, almost like an organic part of the forest, it was easy to not notice until you nearly ran into it. On the other hand, the dark-wood gable roofs peaking from behind the walls, together with the smoke squiggling out of the chimneys, spoke of civilized life, of law, order, and a measure of safety. Only then did Ariela realize how much she'd been missing those very things. She was glad to be in a city; any city, even if it was far away from home.

Partly, perhaps, precisely _because_ it was.

In any case, she was glad to leave the wilderness behind her and forget all about it, if only for one night.

They came at the city from the south-east, and had to ride all the way around the wall in order to arrive at the main gate facing north. Located beside the gate were the city stables. It appeared as if the horses there were studying Frost, and that in their eyes admiration mixed with envy; though Ariela's tired mind might have just been making things up, too. On the other hand, who was she to say horses didn't have just the same feelings and motivations as people did?

And speaking of which: the look on the faces of the two guards lounging besides the gate as they watched Runa passing on her marvelous, white horse, was more like envy mixed with resentment, stirred together in a big bowl of greed. Something in their eyes said that they would have gladly and without second thought made a move against Runa, if only they hadn't been so afraid of her. Though, to be fair, they seemed just about professional enough to be able to conceal it. From most people, that was, but not from Ariela.

She found the whole thing bitterly amusing. She'd seen the exact same thing countless times at the Guild. Someone with better credentials, or somebody whose ideas received more attention or praise, that someone would more often than not earn the relentless and uncompromising scorn of his or her peers. Not every time, of course, but the amount of jealousy and behind-your-back grumbling—even downright backstabbing—among the people who were supposed to represent the highest minds of entire Tamriel, was simply staggering.

Wherever you went, it seemed, people acted pretty much the same. Like petty fools.

They dismounted, and Runa left Frost at the stables to be looked after. While she was paying the stable hand, Ariela was rubbing her sore buttocks, observing the carriage parked by the gates. The spindly, old driver sat at the reins, leaning chin against hand and picking his nose. He looked bored and sleepy. Ariela noted the hard wooden benches at the back and saw that they were not cushioned. She worried how her pampered backside was going to survive the long ride to Winterhold. Suddenly she felt a lot less excited about her big adventure. Again.

And, _Divines_ , was she tired.

She jumped as Runa laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Come on, scholar-girl," she said, smirking. "Let's go get paid."

As they approached the gate, Runa nodded at the guards. "Evening, boys. Keeping out the frost trolls and dragons, I trust."

The other guard, a young and lanky fellow with a pointy chin and a mouth that looked drawn to a permanent dour scowl, looked her up and down and grunted softly. "You really think you're something special, Fair-Shield, don't you?"

Runa just smirked. "Oh, come now. Why the long face?"

The guard pointed his finger at her and opened his mouth as to say something, but didn't seem to be able to come up with anything. He then lowered his hand and pursed his lips, managing to look even more disgruntled.

"Such a beautiful night, too," she continued genially, motioning her hand at the darkening sky. "So cheer up, fellows. Here." She reached in the larger pouch hanging from her belt and produced two Septims. Then she laid one in the hand of each guard. "A little something for your trouble. Don't worry, we can get the gate ourselves."

The guards were clearly too confounded to do anything but accept the unusual donation. The other, older man, who looked like it had been Morning Star since he'd seen his last bath—and even then probably only seen it—was gaping at the coin with his mouth hanging open, like he was looking at some kind of exotic animal.

"Have a good one, lads!" Runa bade, and they walked through the wooden gate and into the city.

The inside of Riften was as murky in tone as were its walls. The buildings were dominated by dark wood and sooty stone. The plan of the city itself, Ariela knew, was dictated by the canal that ran through it and divided it in two parts: the Dryside, which held the majority of the town's residential buildings, its temples, and the Jarl's palace, and Dockside, which was the center of the town's trade. The canal was where the smell of stagnant water hanging above the entire place originated from.

They crossed the little bridge to the Dockside, the boards creaked and bent just a little underfoot. Ariela leaned over the railing and looked down into the canal. A torch-lit walkway ran beside the murky water. There was no one about, save for one swaying man dressed in a bedraggled overcoat. He stood precariously at the edge of the water with his manhood hanging out, sending a spray into the canal. It wasn't like it was going to make the water any filthier.

The man lifted his gaze to meet Ariela's, but showed no particular interest in his audience. He finished his business and tucked his member away, then continued to stagger along his way while singing some folk tune in his grainy, most decisively out-of-tune voice.

Runa joined at Ariela's side, resting her strong hands on the railing. "The canal has sure been cleaned up over the years, but somehow rats always seem to find their way down to the sewers." She grunted softly. "Still, you should have seen it around the time of the Civil War. I remember as a kid watching not just once or twice as they fished somebody out in the morning. Never will forget those faces, all swollen and gray." She paused, looking pensive. "Not that I hadn't seen anyone dead before that."

She hawked and spat into the water. "I still wouldn't go drinking it, though," she said, then jerked her head at Ariela to follow.

"So you grew up here?" Ariela asked, catching up to the Nord.

Runa shook her head. "Spent a couple years. Then I was . . . I moved."

"Where did you grow up, then?"

Runa shrugged. "All over the place."

It was clear she wasn't in a mood to continue the conversation, so Ariela pushed it no further.

They walked past the inn. There were a couple unsavory characters loitering about, leaning against the wall. They followed the passing women with calculating gazes. Runa appeared to pay them no heed, just strode on. Then, a scraggy man with one eye gray and blind and his right ear half sliced off, dove from the shadows, coming towards Ariela wearing a most abominably lecherous leer.

Ariela made to pull away, but Runa shoved the man away with a firm hand.

"Back off, Skulky!" she barked.

The man raised his hands. "She's all yours," he said, his voice at once conciliatory and derisive.

Ariela made the mistake to look back, and the man was still staring after them. He made an indecent gesture at her with his tongue, and Ariela hurriedly averted her gaze. She found herself pulling her coat a little tighter.

They walked pass the marketplace, which consisted of small stalls set in the circle around the city's well. One last merchant was still packing up. As he was locking up his stall, Ariela passingly wondered whether this was really such a safe place to leave your valuables unguarded all night. The booths seemed awfully easy to break into, if only one possessed any skill with the lockpick.

Runa came to a stop. She was regarding a husky, old smith, hunched over his anvil and banging away at a red-hot piece of metal, his long, gray hair hanging down his face

"Balimund, you old coot!" she called at him. "Still beating off that rusty steel of yours into the late hours?"

The burly smith's head snapped up. As he saw Runa, a wide grin broke on his threadbare face. "You know how it is, girl," he crowed. "Never enough weapons in this Zenithar-damned world. Besides, I hear a new rebellion's gonna rise soon. And I, for one, am gonna be ready when it does!"

Runa snorted. "The only rebellion _I_ 'm going to be seeing, old man, is the one in my stomach if I ever again make the mistake to let that wife of yours feed me her cookings."

Balimund bellowed laughter. "Oh don't be too hard on Agna; can't blame her for your own feeble stomach. Besides, she's gotten better over the years. I swear! You should give her another chance, eh?"

"No chance, sir! Runa Fair-Shield gives you one chance, and once chance _only_. Blow it, and you and her are through!"

"You're a hard woman, Runa." The smith shook his head in amusement. "Just like your mother. Tell me, how's the old lass doing these days?"

"Well, you know her. Busy as a bee."

"When you see her, tell her to pay old Balimund a visit, would you? Business or pleasure, either way."

Runa waved a hand at him. "I'll tell her, but I don't want hear anything about your pleasures!"

"Hey," the burly man exclaimed with mock offense. "I'm a married man!"

Runa snorted. "Yeah, I haven't heard _that_ one before!" She started to leave. "Anyway, I've got to be going. Take care of yourself, and for gods' sake try to get some rest! You'll end up hurting yourself, you senile, old fool."

Ariela hung back a bit. She was still staring at the elderly smith who himself was looking after Runa with a sort of fatherly smile on his lips. He then met Ariela's gaze and nodded politely.

"Young lady," he said.

Ariela nodded clumsily and hurried after Runa.

She had to take a couple running steps to catch up to the long-legged woman again.

"Hey, uh," she said, "what was that he said about a new rebellion?"

Runa shook her head. "Nothing. Folk been talking about it ever since they dispatched old Stormcloak, himself. Nothing but talk, of course. I'd pay no mind to such nonsense if I were you."

Ariela fell silent. She couldn't argue with Runa's determinate rhetoric, even if what she'd said didn't quite manage to satisfy her. It all made sense of course, but she couldn't help a small feeling of uneasiness about it.

After all, it was the events that had taken place in Skyrim two decades ago that had brought her here today. Things that had happened: the rebellion and the Civil War, the defeat and death of Ulfric Stormcloak, the assassination of Emperor Titus Mede II, which, in its way, had help to spark the Continuation War. Things that had happened, yes, and—even more importantly—things that had _not_ happened, but that perhaps should have . . .

Suddenly she thought she might've heard the echo of an ear-splitting shriek somewhere high above her. She instinctively looked up but of course saw nothing. It was only her imagination running rampant, like it always did when she was tired.

She felt a chill then, but decided to just focus on what was right in front of her, to disregard any ominous premonition, or any shadow of a memory of some half-forgotten nightmare. This was reality. This was now. This was all there was.

And she almost believed it, too.


	10. The Jarl

The first thing Ariela noticed upon entering the main hall of the Jarl's palace were the long trestle tables set up around the hearth in the middle, bearing lavish delicacies. Fish, meats, cheeses, fruit, bread; ale, mead, and wine. Yet there didn't appear to be anyone dining, and instead the foods were just sitting there, getting colder while Ariela's stomach groaned in profound displeasure. She felt her mouth water at the smell of it, and she desperately wanted to dig in, to just stuff her face until ready to burst.

It wasn't like her at all, but then neither was going so long without eating. Still, she felt ashamed of her animalistic urges, while at the same time cursing the upbringing and education that so kept her from following them.

The hearth had the honor of being the only source of heat in the immense hall closed in by granite walls, and a scant one at that. Ariela could see her breath in the dim light provided by chandeliers dangling high up on the ceiling and by the fire shedding its gold on the mosaic floor around it. Still, without the bitter wind she could now loosen her thick coat. She looked about her as they circled the tables. The hall donned minimalistic décor, its walls bare save for the bolted beasts' heads and the gold-and-lavender banners of the Rift swaying gently in the draft. At the end of the hall, set up on a dais at the top of the stairs leading to the living accommodations, stood the Jarl's throne in front of which guests were received.

Jarl Maven Black-Briar perched on her sovereign seat like some disenchanted bird of prey, right elbow propped on her knee and chin resting on the back of her long-fingered, claw-like hand. The Jarl had this _air_ about her. Like she was someone who knew her place, and wanted to make sure that you understood that she knew _yours_ too, and that the time she deigned to grant you was to be looked upon as a great service. To Ariela it represented the typical and utterly despicable arrogance of someone who had completely forgotten why she'd been elevated to her high position in the first place.

Already she was not liking this woman; not at all.

Black-Briar's yellow eyes followed them with a blasé yet hard and calculating gaze as they approached the throne. She was a woman well into her sixties, but her features had retained a certain youthfulness. Sharply arched eyebrows contrasted her gray hair with their dark, giving her an expression appearing to emanate permanent displeasure. Her thin lips were drawn into a tight line, the corners of her mouth curving upwards just a tiny bit in a hint of a smile. It was not one of geniality, by any means, but just another sign of the complete lack of threat anyone or anything might have posed to her. This was ensured, of course, by the guard of two imperial soldiers standing behind her, beefy arms crossed in front of them and eyes vigilant.

Another person, a young pretty-faced man with a shock of blond hair and the simple-minded look of a newborn fawn in his blue eyes, arrived hurriedly and sat in the seat next to Black-Briar. He gave the Jarl a doting look, which was met with an irritated glare. Then he turned to Ariela and Runa, clearly trying to adopt his mistress' air of disdain, but just coming across as preposterous. In a way Ariela felt sorry for him.

"Don't you Jarls ever sleep?" Runa said as she swaggered towards the Jarl. She seemed to intentionally come across as unfawning as she could. "Seeing peasants and beggars until late hours; it must be a hard life. Can't say I envy you."

"Well, well," the Jarl crooned, "look who it is. A long time since you've last shown yourself around here, Fair-Shield." Her voice was a perfect match for the rest of her: cold and haughty, betraying not a single uncontrolled emotion. It was undoubtedly how a viper would have sounded, had it been given the upbringing and education of a high-born.

"Oh come now, Maven. How long have you known me? Just call me Runa." The characteristic playfulness in Runa's voice came now with a certain edge, making it quite obvious this was not a meeting she'd been looking forward to, either.

"Very well . . . _Runa._ " There was an obvious disdain about the way the Jarl uttered the name. "What gives me this great pleasure?"

"Wish I could say I'm here because I've missed your radiating presence," said Runa, "but, truth be told, I've missed it like I miss a rash in the crack of my ass."

The eyes bulged in the head of the man at Black-Briar's side. For a second it actually looked like he would jump out of his seat in outrage, but the Jarl calmed him with an upheld hand. She herself showed no sign of disturbance. Instead the slight curve on her lips widened slightly.

"Business, then, Runa?"

Runa nodded. "You know me so well." She looked at the young man and smirked. That made him blush a little, and then instantly search for some place less unsafe to direct his eyes.

"No doubt we're talking blood-money here," said the old woman.

"I make no judgments as to the origin of the gold, if that's what you mean, Maven. But I'm afraid that the work I put into the task I'm here to collect my payment for could not be performed without some . . . _spillage_ , if you will." When the Jarl made no further reply, Runa continued, "So I hereby regretfully bring the news, that the great and beloved Grushnag gro-Ghasharzol—also known as Grushnag Skullcrusher by some—a bandit, a trafficker, a murderer, a thief, and—who knows—perhaps a loving husband and father, is no longer with us. A loss for his possible family, perhaps, but no doubt a triumph for the realm." She finished her announcement, carried out with a mockingly solemn voice, and stuck out her hand. "So pay up, Maven. My blades don't work for charity."

Jarl Black-Briar studied Runa impassively. "And I don't suppose you have anything in the way of proof of this?"

"Well, unfortunately I couldn't bring his head as evidence, for—solid bone as it is—it was simply way too heavy to be lugging around. You'll just have to take my good word on it."

The Jarl snorted. "Yes, and we all know what a mighty good word you bounty hunter types have to go by."

Runa gave a nonchalant shrug. "Well, the way I see it you either do that, or end up knee-deep in bandit skulls. Might make a nice collection, though."

There was a moment of silence, finally broken by Runa clearing her throat. "So . . ." she said. "About my gold? I believe it's exactly two hundred Septims you owe me."

Jarl Black-Briar turned to the blond man by her side. "Jesper, go the treasury and get this insufferable woman her gold."

Jesper put his hand against his chest. "Me?"

"No," the Jarl snarled, "the ghost of Pelagius the Mad sitting next to you. Yes, of course you, you big buffoon! And be quick about it."

Jesper looked at once annoyed and chastised, but got up swiftly and shuffled into the chambers. The guards standing by the doorway kept their faces straight, but showed signs of stifling smiles.

"Hard to find good people these days," said Runa once Jesper had gone. She smirked. "I do hope he makes it up in other areas."

The Jarl once again betrayed no sign of annoyance, but instead the look on her face even showed some measure of self-satisfaction.

Runa kept on goading. "I got to hand it to you, though. That's pretty good—for an old timer like yourself, that is. Hope you're keeping up with the ride."

The Jarl ignored any mockery mixed amid Runa's compliments. "You didn't think one holds a position such as mine without certain . . . advantages, did you?"

"No, I don't suppose I did." Runa admitted. "And it's not like I wasn't aware of your, well, _tendencies_. Just I'd not expected you to give one of your bed-warmers an actual courtly position is all."

Black-Briar smiled frigidly. "Well, it is as you said: hard to find trustworthy people these days."

The Jarl's cold eyes then turned to Ariela. "But enough about me and mine. I can see you still keep around your own little playthings, too."

Runa jerked her thumb at Ariela. "Her? Throw in a hundred Septims more, and you can have her!"

Ariela jerked in indignation. _How dare she!_ She was too outraged to think of anything intelligible to say, but instead threw Runa a furious look.

"Okay, okay," Runa said quickly, holding her hands up. "I was kidding, of course. She's not for sale."

"Runa!" Ariela exclaimed.

"What?" the Nord replied, frowning. She simply did not seem to get it.

"I am not a _plaything_!" Ariela snapped. She looked the sneering Jarl in the eye. "And I am not hers. Not in _any_ _way_." She then tuned back to Runa. "You tell her!"

Runa actually did look a bit chastised. "It's true," she explained the Jarl. "I just kind of stumbled across her and figured I'd let her tag alone. That's all."

It wasn't a completely accurate account, but certainly better than nothing.

The Jarl narrowed her eyes, obviously amused. "Sure, sure," she said. "Whatever you say."

Now what in Julianos' name was _tha_ t supposed to mean?

Just then Jesper hurried back, carrying with him a big pouch full of coins. He was still looking a bit offended, though it wasn't likely his offense carried much weight anyway. Ariela felt unexpected kinship with him just then.

He walked to Runa, then gave the Jarl a quick look. She nodded, and Jesper placed the pouch into Runa's waiting hands.

"Thanks, dear," she said with honey on her tongue, giving him a wink.

The young man blushed again, then gave an awkward nod and quickly returned to his seat. Ariela glanced at Black-Briar, whose expression had darkened just a little. Was that jealousy she was detecting? The Jarl gave Jesper a somewhat scolding look, and the man averted his eyes, face red as a spanked child's bottom.

Runa knelt down and opened the bag. She took out a couple coins, inspecting them as if to make sure they were real.

The Jarl frowned, the first sign of mobility Ariela had seen on her brow.

"What?" she said. "You don't trust me?"

"Oh, don't take it personally," replied Runa, looking up from the gold. "You can never be too careful with these things."

Surprisingly, the Jarl nodded in agreement. "That was about the first sensible thing you've said this whole time, I believe," she said. "Wouldn't you know it that even _I_ encountered someone trying to rip me off. Just last week, in fact. Rip _me_ off. Me!"

"So sad, the things we people are capable of," Runa said, a caricature of solemnity.

Once again, the Jarl chose not to notice any mockery. "Oh, you said it. But do not feel too bad, we found out who it was and no permanent damage was caused. You can rest assured: the perpetrator will be severely punished. A message will be sent." The tone of her voice was eerily cold.

This did _not_ sound like the language appropriate for a public official.

"I don't doubt it," Runa said, closing up the bag and standing up. "Though, based on what I hear, dragging him in your bedchambers should serve as more than severe enough a punishment."

This got a reaction out of Jesper. He squirmed in his chair, the coloring of his face balancing between the angry red of shame and the dark purple of anger. However, he managed to contain himself and quickly calm down, though he did look like he'd swallowed a raw Chaurus egg.

"Would there be something else, Runa." The Jarl asked. "Or are we through here?" Even she was sounding a bit irked now.

Runa flashed a sunny smile. "Nope, I believe I got what I came for."

"Good."

Jarl Black-Briar started to rise. Jesper also quickly scampered on his feet. He tried to lend a helping hand to the Jarl, who swatted it off with a scowl. This seemed to greatly amuse Runa.

The Jarl turned to leave, but looked at the Nord warrior once more. "Oh, and next time you're in town, don't hesitate to keep as far away from this place as possible. There's only so often I can suffer these visitations."

At that she walked on, Jesper at her heel, and disappeared into her chambers.

Runa turned to Ariela. She was in a jovial mood. "Well, that went well!" she chirped.

Ariela was still annoyed and made no attempt to conceal it, but the chipper Nord didn't even seem to take notice. Instead she placed her arm around Ariela's shoulders.

"All right then," she said. "Now that that's taken care of, let's go get hammered!"

"I don't—" Ariela started.

"Hammered," confirmed Runa. And then they were going already.


	11. The Night Out

After the warmth of the Jarl's palace, the frigid wind outside penetrated even deeper into Ariela's bone and marrow. She pulled her coat tighter as they descended the wide stairs. A chilling gust slammed into her at the edge of the marketplace, forcing her to turn her back to it and hunker down until it passed.

She turned to Runa to comment on the cold, but the other woman wasn't attentive. She stood with her back turned to Ariela, staring at a log house to the left of the palace entrance. Ariela peeked over her shoulder, read the text in the faded brazen placard hanging on the outside. It said: _Honorhall Orphanage_. Runa was just standing there, staring quietly.

"Um, Runa?" Ariela said.

"Yeah?" the Nord replied vacantly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Runa said, stirring. "Just woolgathering a bit." She turned to Ariela and smiled. "Guess I'm getting tired, too. Better get to those drinks before it's too late, huh!" The sparkle was back in the woman's eye. She put a hand on Ariela's shoulder and gestured towards the inn, and—it had to be admitted—with the golden warm light glowing in its windows, it was looking very inviting just then.

"The Bee and Barb," said Runa as they reached the door. "One of my favorites. It's been a while; I'm sure they've missed me."

She was about to get to the door when it swung open, and a tall buxom Nord woman in warrior's garb strode out.

"Well, hello there, Doren," Runa purred at the woman, a sly gleam in her eyes.

But this Doren character only gave her a hard glare. She then stuck up her nose and strolled on.

Runa gave Ariela a feigned look of "no idea what that was about" innocence. Then, as soon as Runa had set her foot inside the Inn, a heavily intoxicated man somewhere in his late fifties accosted her.

"Runa!" the man exclaimed, throwing his beefy arms out wide. "Just the woman I need. I'm a bit randy! Whaddaya say we get a room and take care of that, huh?" He nudged Runa with this elbow. "How 'bout it?"

"Bah!" Runa said. "No offense, Arrald, old boy, but you're _way_ past your prime. I believe it's about time you start taking your needs to the Goldenglow Estate!"

"Hah!" The man's voice was a deep bellow. "I'll have you know the old snake still gets his share of grass to slither in—free of charge, no less!"

"Oh yeah?" said Runa. "I'd guess convincing someone to do it with you is just _half_ of your problem. I'd worry even more about getting your gear battle-ready." She in turn gave the man her elbow. " _If you know what I mean._ "

"That just shows what you know, Runa. Don't tell me you haven't heard: there's this salve from Elsweyr, made from the ground cock-bone of a Senche Tiger, I believe. Works like charm, and I don't believe you even need to be fully conscious for it to kick in, either!" The man wore a wide grin across his puffy, corrugated features. "Yeah, just rub some on your knob and— _BOOM_!" He slapped one hand on his upper arm and stuck the forearm in the air while making a fist.

Runa laughed. "I think in your case it's more like— _bing._ " She pointed up her pinkie.

"Your memory must be failing you as you keep gaining miles!" Arrald protested.

Runa snorted. "Oh, how I wish I could forget, but I'm afraid the memory of the odor alone shall follow me all the way to Sovngarde!"

The man bellowed another laughter. "Stop it, Runa," he howled, "I surrender! I'm telling you, that sharp tongue of yours can make a fully grown man cry!"

"Well, at least now you're being honest there, for it ain't growing no more—ointments or no."

"I'll go, I'll go!" Arrald said and made to leave. But then his eye caught Ariela, as if only now noticing her there. He raised his eyebrows, opening his mouth and leaning towards her.

Runa poked her finger hard in his chest. "Not your type, either," she said firmly.

"Oh," replied the unpleasant man, "something extra in those breeches then?"

At that, he went on his way, all the while chuckling to himself.

"Never mind that lecherous old drunk," Runa said with a shake of head, a faint smile lingering on her lips.

"What's 'Goldenglow Estate'?" asked Ariela.

Runa wrinkled her nose. "Oh, that. It's a 'pleasure house' owned by the Black-Briars. Located on a group of islands in Lake Honrich—or, as I like to call it: Lake _Horn-rich_." She smirked. "A vile place, to say the least."

Ariela didn't need to hear any more, she could well picture the rest. Though, truth be told, in the past she might have considered the kind of establishment they were currently in "a vile place". And while it was true that the thick air of alcohol fumes and profuse sweat left something to be hoped for, the warmth, together with the tender yellow light generated by the hearth and the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, felt like the most welcoming change from the cold outside air, and from the different, yet equally chilling, kind of frigidity in the Jarl's palace.

There weren't that many tables, but the ones there were occupied. The place hosted a ragtag crowd of rugged warrior types in their ragged pelts and armor, plus a couple affluent-looking men wearing neat and expensive-looking cloaks on their shoulders and dignified, somewhat reserved, looks on their faces, sitting side by side. And, contrary to Ariela's expectations, with no sign of animosity; even though each was obviously keeping to their own kind.

Despite the loud, raucous laughter and some minor squabbling, there was no sign of fighting, and even the arguing was kept under control. This even though most of the clientele had clearly already spent a significant time enjoying the house's beverages. Of the two Argonians running the place, the male one was walking around, sharing some words with customers, refilling drinks, and collecting empty dishes and bottles.

Runa waved to a table of warriors, who greeted her with rounds of drunken holler. She then walked to a large, passed out man with his forehead against the table and his arms hanging by his knees. She laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Alright, friend. Time to get up and call it a day, don't you think?"

The man twitched a little and gave an annoyed grunt. Then, suddenly, he had his head up and a knife in his hand. His furious, bloodshot eyes were searching for whoever it was that was bothering him. Runa, on the other hand, simply regarded the man with her head cocked. There was a flash of recognition in the man's eyes as he saw who it was. The anger on his face gave way first to something like embarrassment, then something like alarm.

"Oh, sure," he mumbled meekly, scrambling onto his feet. "You're right, of course. Off I go."

He almost fell on his face at the get-go, but somehow managed to stay on his feet and stagger away. The warrior types snickered and jeered at him as he clumped past them.

Runa gestured towards the table, and Ariela sat down, on the side the man hadn't been drooling on. The table was just a little bit sticky.

"Well," Runa said. "I'll get us something to eat. Any requests?"

"At this point, I'll pretty much eat anything," Ariela sighed.

"Alright. And what will you have for your drink, milady?" Runa made a silly little bow.

"Oh, whatever you're having," Ariela replied, immediately wondering whether it was a mistake.

For a second she considered asking whether they happened to serve the Surilie Brothers' wine, the only alcoholic beverage she had occasionally, and which she actually thought tasted pretty decent. But she decided it was unlikely they'd have it in this corner of Tamriel. Or, in case they'd actually hauled some all the way here, they would likely be demanding ridiculous prices for it.

Runa went off to the bar to order, and Ariela took a surveying look around the inn. Their table was located beside a wall at the edge of the room, allowing for a good vantage point. The warrior types were giving her sideways glances, making some comments to each other. The looks on their faces suggested that their assessment of Ariela was likely on par with that of the Jarl. It annoyed her, of course, but there was nothing to be done. She couldn't, after all, affect the way people thought—though by no means for lack of wanting to.

She paid them no further mind.

The rich-looking people wasted no attention on those around them, just kept chattering with each other while sipping their expensive alcohol and eating small bites from their plates of delicacies. They did this all with composed and refined movements, offering a stark contrast to the ale and mead swilling roughnecks around them, who between drinking and yelling were stuffing food into their mouths with a manner that was a far cry from refinement, hardly finding the time to stop and chew.

Though curious, Ariela found herself feeling too timid to let her eye linger on the people any longer. After all, not being fully knowledgeable about the local customs, she might end up offending someone unintentionally. So she sought out Runa instead.

The Nord was at the counter, waiting as the female Argonian was loading her purchases on a large wooden tray. Once she had her tray loaded, Runa traipsed back with a gratified smile on her lips. As she lay her loot on the table, a wave of pleasurable anticipation ran through Ariela. She fought the urge to lick her lips at the sight.

Runa unloaded the tray—baked potatoes, grilled leeks, a couple of salmon steaks, a wedge of blue cheese, fresh bread, and to top it off, a slab of roasted pheasant breast in light brown sauce, cut in two. There was even a pair of cream covered sweetrolls for dessert. For drinks she'd gotten two yellow bottles; she pulled the corks out and handed the other one to Ariela.

"Black-Briar Mead," Ariela read the label.

"You got it," said Runa. "That wrenched clan isn't all bad," She took a swig and gave a sigh of delight. " _The_ best mead in Skyrim, in my opinion. Honningbrew ain't too bad either, but a bit too sweet for my taste. That swill Nord Mead I'd steer clear of, no matter how unpopular my take on it might be around here." She nodded at Ariela. "Go on, have a taste."

Ariela did as ordered. And, it had to be admitted, the bitter-sweet drink was much tastier than she'd expected. Its mild fizziness was pleasant on her thirsty tongue, and she felt a pleasant warmth in her empty belly.

"Not bad, huh?" asked Runa.

"No, it's actually quite good," Ariela replied.

"Uh huh," Runa said, taking another mouthful. She looked at the bottle in her hand, her expression thoughtful. "Yeah. Say what you must about the overall personality of Maven Black-Briar, but her piss sure tastes good!"

Ariela, who had just been in the process of taking another sip, suddenly spasmed with an uncontrolled snicker, sending a spatter of mead all over the table and right on Runa. She clapped a hand over her mouth, abashed.

Runa giggled, wiping mead off her face. "So, you _can_ laugh. Might be hope for you yet."

"It wasn't funny!" Ariela said, trying to keep out the little smile trying to force itself upon her face.

"Yeah? Then why'd you spray your mead all over me? Trying to tell me something?" She gave her underarm a theatrical sniff. "I'll have you know I bathed just a few days ago."

Ariela tried to turn her attention to the food instead.

"Still," Runa mused. "I bet if you asked that Jesper fellow, he would tell you—"

"Runa!"

Runa chuckled. "It's true because it's funny!"

"Please stop!" begged Ariela.

"Just teasing you," replied the smirking Nord. "You're making it all too easy, you know."

Ariela shook her head. She had to admit, though: there was something utterly disarming in the older woman's disposition. What was it, the apparent utter lack of caring about what anybody might think of her? Or maybe it was the nearly childlike ignorance of the limits of propriety? Whatever it was, there was something about Runa that made Ariela even feel a bit envious. She just seemed so. . . _free_. Ariela even found herself starting to warm up to the woman's constant juvenile banter.

She couldn't think of it too hard at the moment, though. She'd postponed eating way too long already. She took a big bite of the pheasant. A shiver of gratification ran through her as the tasty, salty liquid from the succulent, warm meat filled her mouth. It was perhaps a bit gamy for her taste, and, as a sort of ascetic, she was normally accustomed to a more vegetable-based diet, but at the moment she felt like she was experiencing something she'd awaited for a lifetime. Was there supposed to be something more pleasurable, more rewarding than eating?

Runa dug in too, and soon they were both ferociously stuffing their faces—slurping loudly, smacking their lips, every now and then letting out little moans of enjoyment. It crossed Ariela's mind how silly it might have looked to an outsider, but at the moment she couldn't care less.

She tore a chunk off of the warm bread and dipped it in the sauce that went with the pheasant. The bread's crust was just right, perfectly crisp, and the sourdough inside exquisitely chewy. She crumbled a piece of cheese to accompany the bread; it was stringent and sweet. Runa across the table shoved most of a baked potato in her mouth. She looked ridiculous chewing on it.

As Ariela bit into the salmon and grabbed a grilled leek, Runa downed the rest of her mead, some potato still in her mouth. She washed the food down and let out a loud, guttural belch, then slammed the empty bottle on the table.

"Done," she said. "I'm getting another, how about you?"

Ariela lifted her bottle to show Runa it was only halfway gone.

Runa got up. "You better keep up," she said, then looked at Ariela. "On second thought—better not try."

Once she returned, Ariela was already starting to feel quite full. She leaned back, feeling a little jab of guilt for her piggish behavior. That was just typical for her mind: to throw itself greedily into sensual indulgence, and once the sensuous thirsts had been met, immediately retreat; then, from its new vantage point, to regard itself with a certain sheepish abhorrence, as if having betrayed its own better judgments and higher sensibilities.

Not that her ordinary life offered many chances for sensual indulgence.

The thing was, though, she was just too damn _tired_ to care. Instead she enjoyed the change. For once she was on an adventure, and not just one of the internal kind. It made her feel alive in a whole new way. There was the tickle of excitement in her belly and a pleasant little buzz in her head.

_This must be some strong mead_ , she thought. Though, of course, her being pretty much completely unaccustomed to drinking probably had its part to play.

In either case, it felt good.

She took another gulp and saw that Runa was already well into her second one. The woman looked content indeed.

"I just have to ask," Ariela said, leaning over the table. "What was that between you and the Jarl? I mean, I must admit it made me quite nervous, the way you talked to her. It's like, this woman, she could just make one go away with one snap of the fingers. And I thought it was simply amazing how she pretty much just sat there and _took it_."

"Heh, yeah," replied Runa. "Me and Maven go way back."

When she said nothing further, Ariela felt she had to press the matter. "Yeah? Care to elaborate on that?"

Runa shrugged. "Well, you know, a whole bunch of things. She knows and—to some extent—respects my mother. I've myself done some odd jobs for her in the past . . . saved the life of her son once. That sort of stuff."

"Oh, wow." said Ariela, leaning back. "Her son, huh? Well, no wonder she's so . . . _tolerant_ of you."

Runa shrugged again. "Yeah, I suppose so. Even Maven, I guess, has _some_ sense of decency, after all. Not that Sibbi's sorry hide was much worth saving, though."

"So where is he now, this _Sibbi_?"

Runa took a swig. "Dead."

"Oh," Ariela said. "What happened to him?"

Runa was smiling faintly—an odd thing to do, subject matter considered. "The circumstances surrounding the death of Sibbi Black-Briar are unclear, to say the least. In short: nobody knows. There's different theories, though. Some say it was by some disease he caught from a whore. Some say he was stabbed to death by a jealous husband. Then there are those who claim he was stabbed by a whore. All quite possible alternatives, I'd say. Though," she mused after another sip, "I don't believe anybody's suggested he died of a disease he got from a jealous husband . . ." She grunted softly. "In any case, all the theories agree on one thing—his cause of death was more or less directly related to his willy." The Nord grinned across the table. "Ain't it funny how often it's those things that most define our lives that end up getting us in the end?"

Part of Ariela was trying to muster embarrassment over Runa's candidness, but she was getting used to it by now. Instead it was the woman's choice of words that somehow struck home. They made her think. How would she herself die? Would she just collapse over some old book, alone in her room after late-night study? Might she perhaps be crushed by a heavy bookshelf falling on her in the library? Choke on some dust, maybe?

She felt the bite of melancholy. She'd never truly had any second thoughts about her vocation, as she knew without a shadow of doubt she wanted to dedicate her life to scholarship, to learning and understanding. She wanted to help to make the world a better, more civilized place; to help people understand, to remember. But she still couldn't help an occasional moment of weakness, of skepticism and self-doubt. There was just something about the way these people lived, the way Runa lived: the excitement, the sensual thrill . . . Ariela couldn't stifle the little voice inside, asking: was she wasting her life? Was she severely missing out on something? Was her life—was she herself, perhaps—an utter _bore_?

She shook her head gently. What was the use of those kinds of thoughts? She was who she was, and could not change that, even if she'd wanted to. At least right at this moment she could take it easy. Just have some fun. For once.

Making up her mind, she finished her bottle, then slammed it on the table like Runa had. "Done!"

The Nord downed hers too. "Same here. Another?"

Ariela nodded.

"Mead?"

"Yeah, sure."

A few minutes later, Runa was back with more drinks. She gave Ariela her second mead, and had herself switched to ale, which she'd reserved two bottles of. She pulled the stopper out of one and took a long swig. She was about to say something, but was interrupted by a nasal male voice.

"We- _hell_! Runa Fair-Shield, the terror of the Rift, I sees!"

Runa grinned, then spun around to face a tall man in heavy emerald-and-gold glass armor. He carried his helmet under his arm, his curly, strawberry-blond hair disheveled in a way that managed to look carefully arranged. The man's green eyes had a bright, playful twinkle about them and he was sporting a wide, mischievous smile. His large teeth seemed to barely fit in his mouth, though his rather meaty lips were clearly doing their best to contain them.

"Rusty!" Runa exclaimed. "Still haven't accidentally stabbed yourself to death, I see." There was genuine affection in her voice.

A shadow of a grimace briefly mixed with the man's grin. "I really wish you'd stop calling me that, Runa," he said. "I mean, the sheer lack of imagination of it—if anything it makes _you_ look bad."

"Alright, then . . ." Runa said, smiling. "Clodhopper."

"On second thought, 'Rusty' will be fine," concurred the ruddy-haired man. "But what about you, still slaying bandits left and right? Took care of old Grushnag, apparently."

Runa frowned. "Now how in _Oblivion_ have you heard about that already?"

Rusty tapped his ear, smiling a clandestine smile. "I hears all, my friend. I hears all."

Runa snorted. "Well, apparently."

"It's too bad, though. Grushnag was quite a character . . . almost a legend,I'd say. Not many of those around anymore, you know?" Rusty shook his read ruefully. "Bandits—what an unscrupulously prosaic bunch, don't you find? It's a crime, really."

Runa also shook her head. "The things you worry about. Must be a difficult existence."

Rusty shrugged. "Can't help it. I'm an artist at heart."

Even though on one hand Ariela was finding this man obnoxious, when he met her eyes and smiled, she couldn't help a small tickle in her abdomen. Her cheeks felt warm, but that might have been the drink's doing, too. To play it safe, she turned her attention back to her mead.

"Oh, I hears Hroar has been looking for you," said Rusty.

"Ha!" Runa exclaimed. "Well, If you see that bastard, you can remind him he still owes me an evening's worth of drinks from the last time I saved his ass."

Rusty raised an eyebrow. "That all?"

"Well, no," Runa said. "You can also sing him a song, or maybe give him a little kiss if you like. I'm not the one to tell folks what they can or cannot do."

"No, Runa. Is that all that he _owes you_?"

"Oh you know me—I'm cheap." Runa then gave the man a significant look. "Though, I believe _you_ still owe me a little something . . . _friend_."

Rusty gave a laugh containing a hint of uncharacteristic nervousness. "Oh, right. All in good time. I has a few things to do tonight, but perhaps—"

"Relax!" Runa said, laughing and waving a hand. "You can keep it in your pants for now. I'm in the middle of something, anyway."

Rusty turned to Ariela again, and gave a knowing grin. "Oh, I sees, I sees. Well, it's variety that keeps you fresh, don't they say? So very much like you, Runa. So very much like you."

Ariela did not particularly appreciate his tone.

From Runa the man's comment only earned a snort. "You knows shit, Rusty. You knows shit."

"Whatever you say, friend."

Runa waved for Rusty to leave. "Go on, before I decide to collect my debt with interest."

Rusty flashed another smile, looking at both of the women. "Interest, huh? Well, the more the merrier!" He winked and gave them a little bow before turning take his leave.

Runa gave Rusty's bottom a resounding slap. The man gave her a sly little look over his shoulder, and then he was on his way.  
_  
What an absurd little display_ , Ariela thought. Her cheeks still felt warm, but she was more and more convinced it was due to being halfway done with her second Mead. It tasted better and better.

Runa's eyes lingered on Rusty's behind as he gained distance, a little smile playing on her lips.

"I'm a bit confused I must say," Ariela said after a while.

Runa turned her attention back to her young companion. "You mean in general? I've noticed."

"No, I mean about you."

"What is it this time?"

"It's just . . . the way you behave. Like with him, for example." She gestured towards Rusty now talking to a woman standing next to the other entrance, not seeming to get much of a warm response. "I mean, I sort of got the idea that . . ."

"That what?"

"I thought you liked girls," Ariela blurted. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. _Divines_ , but the alcohol was making her tongue loose!

Runa, on the other hand, just sniffed in amusement. "Well, the way I see it," she said, "is that some prefer ale, whereas some prefer mead. Heck, some even prefer wine!" She raised her bottle. "Me, on the other hand—" She downed the rest of her drink, slammed the bottle empty on the table, giving a big 'aah'. "—I just get _reaaal_ thirsty!" She then shot Ariela a leer most salacious. By now it was obvious she was only teasing her, but that didn't stop Ariela from squirming a little on her seat. Runa chuckled at her blatant discomfort.

_Blast this woman_ , Ariela thought. She would not let her always get the last word, "But," she continued, "don't you ever get, you know, tired of just— _sampling_? Don't you ever think about, uh, settling down?"

Runa snorted in contempt. "Bah! You think my lifestyle's the kind where you just settle down? 'Bye, honey! Off to hunt bandits and search for gold! See you if I see you!'"

"Well, haven't you ever thought about changing things around; doing something else?"

"And what would that be: start harvesting the land? Open up a little shop?" Runa grunted. "No, ever since but a girl, I've known this is the life for me—adventure, freedom, lots of gold, and at the end of the day, some drink in my belly and someone to warm my bed." She raised the second bottle of ale and gestured towards the warriors, who just kept getting drunker and drunker and, consequently, louder and louder. "Look around, we're warriors! Go ask Thorgir the Meathead over there if he'd be interested in switching to a trade manufacturing and selling leather bracers. If he's thought about settling down with a wife and some kids."

She shook an amused head at the impossible thought, then took another big swig.

"And you don't fear for your life?" Ariela asked.

Runa seemed to think about it for a second, then shrugged.

"And what if," Ariela pressed, pointing a finger at Runa, "you . . . uh, contract something from one of your 'bed-warmers'. You know, like a disease or—perhaps even worse—a baby?"

Runa shrugged again, smiling wanly. "Well, as for the first: the way I see it, you can't go into a battle without accepting the possibility of taking a little hit." She looked pleased with her own metaphor. "And as for the latter . . ." She reached inside her shirt and pulled out an amulet hanging on her neck. "A special little enchantment. Wear one of these and you needn't worry about uninvited little invaders. Everybody knows that."

A self-satisfied little smirk on her face, Runa tucked the amulet back in her shirt.

Suppose there was no getting around it: there was pretty much nothing Ariela could say to this woman to have any effect. On the other hand, what did it really matter? It's not like she really cared one way or another; everybody had their own life to live

And yet, as she took another sip of her mead, another jab of jealousy touched upon her insides. Against her better knowledge—and in fact also against those parts of her knowledge that were mediocre at best—she found herself once more envying the liberal, fun-filled lifestyle of these people. She herself had never even kissed anyone, let alone—

"But what of you," Runa interrupted Ariela's budding self-pity. "Someone special waiting for you at that guild of yours?"

_No need to remind me_ , Ariela thought with some bitterness.

"Oh, no," she said. "The Guild has a pretty strict policy about relationships between scholars. Besides, people there are pretty much completely dedicated to their calling. It's practically a monastery, really."

"Actually," Runa said, "to be completely honest, I've never even heard of no Scholar's Guild before."

"Not that many have," replied Ariela. "In fact, though we've been around for over two decades now, we still haven't spread outside of Cyrodiil. Unfortunately, pretty much as soon as the Guild was founded, the Continuation War started, and so the Empire—"

"Wait," Runa interrupted, frowning. "Continuation War? Oh, you must mean the War of Hammerfell?"

"Well, that's what the Empire chooses to call it," Ariela said. "But among us scholars it's generally referred to as the Continuation War."

Runa looked confused again. "Continuation to what?"

"Well, the Great War of course!"

Runa had an incredulous look in her somewhat glassy eyes. "To my knowledge the Great War was fought between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire, whereas the War of Hammerfell, as indicated by the title, was limited to Hammerfell, and was the Dominion against Redguards. So what's the continuation?"

"Surely you're not _that_ naive, Runa," Ariela said, earning a raised brow from the other woman. "It's pretty clear that the Aldmeri invasion of Hammerfell was a premeditated and intentional provocation of the Empire. Had the Empire taken the bait, decided to directly support the Redguards and waged open warfare with the Dominion, it _would_ have resulted in another Great War. As you probably know, just prior to the attack, the Empire and the Redguard factions had started tentative talks of possibly bringing Hammerfell back under the protection of the Empire. Now, that's hardly a coincidence.

"Plus, as per your claim that the war was limited to Hammerfell: well, that's not actually quite true, either. There were minor local conflicts inside the borders of the Empire, too, but those were passed over in silence. Though it is true that the bulk of the fighting took place in Hammerfell, the overall impact of the war is much larger than is generally thought. It's convenient for the Empire to downplay the war's larger significance, because the whole affair was a stark reminder of the imminence of the Thalmor threat. That's why they paint it as a predominantly local conflict, even though it has to be seen as a part of a larger Dominion interest to undermine the authority of the Medic rule. They are smart, you see, and their longer lifespan gives them the patience they need to take the long view. It will be much easier for them to topple the Empire if they first corrode its legitimacy and prestige in the eyes of its own people. The Empire knows this, too, but as it stands there's little they can actually do about it. "

As it had turned out, the Dominion plans had seemed to backfire somewhat. For though they had secured the southern parts of Hammerfell for themselves, the northern parts had been taken into the protection of the Empire. Of course, the whole province had been in a state of turmoil ever since, so perhaps it had been the Thalmor intention all along. Deciphering the exact motivations of the mysterious people was not exactly child's play.

Be that as it may, for the first time since this whole debacle had started, Ariela felt like she was on her own turf, on ground she knew and on which her feet felt secure. The mead encouraged her inner lecturer even further. "You see," she went on, "it actually matters what you call a conflict. To call something the War of Hammerfell marks it as a separate, individual event with very limited geopolitical ramifications; whereas the choice to refer to it as the Continuation War indicates its place in a larger conflict that indeed has not passed even yet. As you may know, the Dominion itself calls it the Reclaim of Hammerfell. Still, it's also widely—yet unofficially—referred to as the First Advancement, which is really all needed to know in order to understand how they see it. See, for them—"

Ariela trailed off as she noticed the faraway look in Runa's eyes. The Nord was staring at Ariela's chest with an absent expression on her face, as though she were somewhere else entirely.

"So . . ." Ariela said tentatively, "then the Beautiful Magic Unicorn and the Giant One-eyed Toad Prince climbed a rainbow up to the sky, built a castle of cream pudding on a cloud of gold-dust and lived there happily for the remainder of their lives, until one day simultaneously succumbing to a strain of airborne brain-gonorrhea."

Runa's expression remained unchanged.

"Um, never mind," Ariela said quickly and went back to her drink.

Runa snapped out of her stupor. "Oh, sorry, sorry!" she blurted, leaning forward with something of a hangdog expression on her face. "I was _trying_ to listen. I really was!"

Ariela gave her head a curt shake. "It's fine. I shouldn't have supposed you'd be interested." She did her best to cover her chagrin, likely failing spectacularly.

"No, really," Runa insisted. "I _am_ interested. What were you saying?"

Ariela managed a tight-lipped smile. "No, it's okay. You don't have to humor me."

"I'm not! Just go on."

"No, I can't now."

"Please?"

Runa did look genuinely penitent, so after a second or so longer of letting go of her offended pride, Ariela relented. "Well," she continued, "what I was _going to say_ is that the Aldmeri Dominion has left virtually no room for speculation as to what their ultimate goal is. What they intend is no more and no less than to ultimately run down the entire Medic Empire and then replace it with one of their own.

"So it's only intellectual honesty to refer to the war in Hammerfell with a name that puts it in the right context: as the continuation for the goals the Dominion made quite unambiguously clear during the Great War. Their intentions have certainly not changed over the two decades since. But, of course, it's understandable that this is a very sensitive issue for the Empire. That's why we scholars pretty much keep it to ourselves."

Runa was starting to look a little vacant again. "All in all," Ariela concluded, "it doesn't take an oracle to understand that the current state of 'peace' in Tamriel in on a very shaky ground."

Runa perked up and raised her bottle. "I'll drink to that!"

Ariela frowned. "What do you mean by that? You're saying you would _want_ there to be another war?"

"No, no!" Runa said. Not at all! It's just that . . . you know . . . well . . . " She quickly gulped down the rest of her mead. "Hey, how's about another drink! Mead, right?"

Before Ariela could say anything to resist, Runa had already gotten up—nearly knocking over the whole table, but only managing to knock down her own empties—and was jaunting towards the bar.

The rest of the evening Ariela did her best to steer clear from subject matters that would too much challenge the mind. After all, this was the time to forget about such things for a while if there ever was one. She would have plenty of time to worry about things in the future.

Indeed, that time was nearer than she cared to think about.

So Runa kept carrying drink after drink at their table. Pretty soon Ariela had lost the count of them, at least partly because the male Argonian collected the empty bottles before they had time to gather on the table. Ariela could only guess how many she'd had by her increasing stupor, and on the other hand, her ever growing sense of insouciance—a state in no way typical for her.

She was having too much to drink, she knew that much, and a part of her was still trying to remind herself of it. But she could worry about all that tomorrow. Right?

At least she had the good sense to decline wine when Runa introduced the idea. This even after she found out that they actually did sell Surilie Brothers' here. No matter; she knew that would take her overboard. Plus, she could hardly have enjoyed the wine's rich flavor in her current state.

She was really enjoying herself, and was seriously starting to enjoy the Nord woman's company, too. Runa was fun to be around. She shared some immensely amusing anecdotes about the colorful life of the Skyrim underworld and of those like her who regularly dealt with it. She included selected accounts of the equally entertaining adventures and blunders of both her fellow warriors and of herself. In fact Ariela was quite impressed by the woman's honesty and her ability to also be open about her own weaknesses.

In turn, Ariela managed to amuse Runa with a couple stories of her own, stories based on her experiences in the scholarly word and the things that went on there. It surprised her a bit that the other woman should have been interested, but she then realized that it was a world largely alien to anyone outside of it, and understood how absurd and intriguing some of its details could actually be to someone not familiar to it. Of course, she did steer her discourse clear of any technical or heavy issues.

She also told the Nord, who in fact had never set foot outside Skyrim, about life in Cyrodiil in general and some rumors of the many dramas surrounding the Imperial City. Runa seemed genuinely fascinated by them too. Ariela was glad she could also capture the attention of this woman who led such a more colorful and eventful life than she did. Not to mention that Runa had a full decade longer behind her to have accumulated experiences to be retold.

But despite the relaxed and merry atmosphere, as the evening drew to a close, a somber sense of melancholy worked its way into her heart. Soon she'd be back to her regular worries. A strange, dawning presentiment that she might have to take upon herself a duty heavier and more frightening than she felt ready for, was insistently looming over her. It didn't matter how carefree the mead had made her initially feel; in a way, as the pleasant buzz eventually gave way to a downright blur, the heaviness creeping in was even greater than before.

Not to mention the fact she's soon have to bid farewell to her new friend. The initial irritation the woman had caused her had pretty much been completely reversed. True, Ariela's more positive estimation might at least partly have been due to her state of intoxication, but it had also became clear to her that Runa's hard and self-indulgent exterior hid a genuinely heartfelt and intelligent person: someone Ariela could actually imagine befriending.

As Ariela couldn't disguise her inner turmoil, Runa looked at her across the table and frowned. "Well, who weed in your mead?" she asked.

"Oh, it's nothing," Ariela said with a small shake of head, trying to smile.

"It's something," Runa insisted.

"Well, you know. Just feeling a bit sad, knowing that the evening's almost done."

"Ain't over yet," said Runa, raising a fresh bottle of ale on her lips.

"Yeah, I know. But soon. And then I have to be on my way to Winterhold. And you're going . . . where was it you were going?"

"Got some business down at Folkreath."

Ariela sighed. "More adventure, I'm sure."

"Well, that really depends on your definition," Runa said, grimacing lightly. "But hey, chin up! You'll get your own adventure, too."

Ariela grunted softly. "Yeah, sure." She looked into Runa's glazed eyes, wondering if she herself looked as inebriated. Probably at least as much, if not more so. "I think I'll miss your company, though."

Ariela raised a drunken eyebrow. To be completely honest, Ariela was also surprised by her own sudden emotive confession.

"I mean," she continued, "I always wanted a sister . . . I mean . . . " Yeah, what _did_ she mean? "To tell you the truth, I've never really bonded so well with others, especially with other girls. Too much drama, you know?"

"I suppose," said Runa. "Though I'm all about drama, myself."

"It's stiff— it's different. I mean _emotional_ drama." Ariela sighed. This was more difficult than surely it should have been. "Guess what I'm trying to say is . . . I like you. You know? Despite . . . despite everything."

"Everything?"

"Well, you know. The way you say things sometimes . . . the stupid jokes. The way you've basically come on to me all evening."

"Hey!" Runa exclaimed, pointing her finger. "I have _not_!"

"Oh?" Runa tried to raise an eyebrow but could not pick one. " _Have_ you not?"

Runa lowered her finger and seemed to be thinking about it. "Well, I may have—just a little. It's just how I am, though. I don't really mean anything by it."

Suddenly Ariela got pensive. "Hm, that's actually quite interesting," she mused.

"What, now?"

"What you just said. How it's just how you are; how you don't mean anything by it. Isn't it all just . . . so descriptive?"

Runa looked confused. "How do you mean?"

"Well, you know: meaning. Being. How they relate. What does it all mean? To just . . . _be_. You know? Haven't you ever wondered?"

"Hmm . . . " Runa said, looking up and around. "No . . . can't say I have, no." She pointed her finger again. "You, on the other hand, are completely wasted!"

"I am not!" Ariela resisted.

Runa smiled, stabbing the air between them with that finger of hers. "See! That's _exactly_ what a completely wasted person would say! Not to mention your—whatever it was just now. At least I truly hope it didn't represent your finest scholarly efforts."

It was true!

And it didn't matter.

Ariela let out a long, silent giggle. When she was through, she gathered herself and sighed deeply. "You know," she said. "I don't really _care_ _a shit!_ "

Runa gave a surprised look. "Well, then. If you say so." Then, when Ariela had probably started pouting again, she reached over the table and placed a hand on hers. "Hey, don't feel too bad. I'll come see you sometime."

Ariela perked. "You would?"

"Yeah, sure! I mean . . . I like you too. Despite your bookish, surly exterior you're actually pretty fun to hang out with. Especially once we get you some encouragement. It's nice to be drinking with someone who doesn't just talk about who they killed and how—just for once. Perhaps I spend too much time with my own kind. I could come over and you could tell me about your, uh, studies and whatnot. How long was it you said you were staying up there?"

"I didn't say." Ariela said. "In fact, I couldn't tell you.

"Oh, a secret, then." Runa nodded. "Gotcha."

Ariela smiled. "No, silly. I really _can't_. I don't know. There might be . . . complications."

"Heh, well I know all about those." Runa patted the back of Ariela's hand, then retreated hers. "It's settled, then."

"I think I'd like that," Ariela said. She felt a little better already.

"One more then?"

Ariela thought about it, but Runa had already gotten up and was on her way to the bar. It had to be handed to the woman: for someone so plastered, she still had an impressively determined gait.

_Yeah_ , Ariela thought, leaning back. _Worrying can wait until tomorrow._


	12. The Reunion

The gray stone city of Whiterun slowly came into being, materialized from the thin gauze of mist hovering around it, revealing itself as something other than another one of the mountains dominating the horizon. Shadya trudged lackadaisically towards it across the bumpy stone plains of the hold, approaching from the northwest. All over her body was this jarring soreness: a persistent, low-level dull ache, an effect of both the last of the Skooma abandoning her body and a restless night spent on the cold, hard ground. She'd slept—or _tried to_ at least—at the mouth of a cave, with nothing to warm her save for her cloak. And while that would have been plenty in the sorts of climates she had preferred to make her living in—let alone those in which her race was _supposed_ to live—for one reason or another she'd yet to fully learn to accommodate herself to the unforgiving climes of this northern province.

Neither could she yet wrap her head around the fact that up here Last Seed was considered an autumn month.

_Damn_ winter _is more like it!_ she thought, her limbs still a bit numb after the cold least the air was a little bit warmer here than it had been around Hjaalmarch, though not by much. There wasn't any snow on the ground.

Her hand kept instinctively travelling down to her satchel to check her loot, and each time she half expected not to feel it there, as though anticipating an invisible hand having reached in and snatched it since she'd last looked. But each time she met with the reassuring hardness of the pointy object. She felt as if she'd stolen something from a demon and was only waiting for the inevitable moment it would claim back its own. The thing was making her nervous, and the memory of the strange Ohmes with the piercing, derisive eyes and the vaguely contemptuous bearing kept haunting her. Somehow, Shadya felt as though the creature's presence went wherever the dagger did.

_I've got to get rid of this accursed thing as soon as possible._

Luckily, that was precisely what she'd came here for: to unload the hot spoils and to exchange it for a nice sum of glistening, non-threatening gold. Just the thought of that gave her paw something of a sprint. She couldn't wait to get this over with.

The view of the city kept focusing into sharpness in the distance, the pointed spire of Dragonsreach poking up into the heavens. She normally regarded the place with a healthy measure of distaste, but this time she was almost glad to see that looming prick of mannish arrogance bullying the untamed terrain surrounding it. The tickle of the nice bounty she'd be fetching was almost enough to make her forget the other reason . . .

_Oh, damn!_ Suddenly, her heart sank. Getting paid was indeed not the only thing she that had brought her here. There was something else, something as old and as heavy and, supposedly, valuable as gold, yet not nearly as simple and straightforward. Not nearly as attractive.

Family.

That thought stole the spring right out of her step. She'd been anticipating this moment with a certain dread for a month now, ever since she'd heard the news: that the next tribe in rotation to gain the right to trade goods in this province happened to be her own, the Da'kheavek. For one reason or another, she hadn't anticipated it, and most certainly didn't welcome it. She'd already gotten used to the disdain of the members of rivaling tribes, but to have the same done to her by people who were supposed to be her own kin, that just didn't hold much appeal for her.

She might have to find a new place to live.

Shadya kept walking but slowed her pace back to a non-concomitant trudge. Picking a straight path, she negotiated the knobs and the tufts of grass of the rocky, dry tundra. She only touched the Imperial road enough to cross it, preferring the feel of the dry grass under her paws. And although she was no longer hurrying to her destination, sooner than she'd wished she'd circumvented the city wall.

Whiterun lay confidently on a bed of natural ramparts provided by a rocky bluff, which propped the whole city up as if on display. The road winding up to the main gate was protected by a curtain wall partly man-made, partly utilizing the protection provided by the surrounding crags. By its gateway, Shadya saw just what she'd expected to: a band of her own race, sitting around a fire in front of a shabby merchant tent. The conveyable housing consisting of overlaid furs on a simple wooden frame stood right along the path where citizens traveled in and out of the city. Most passers-by were trying to appear either as inconspicuous or as busy as they possibly could, just to avoid being accosted by the spurned cat-people.

Where in the past the faces she met here had born little resemblance to her own, this time Shadya was greeted by disconcertingly familiar features. And sure enough, as soon as she got at a sniffing distance, the head of one of the Khajiit turned in her direction. The female feline's mouth was drawn in a smile, but the position of her ears indicated that it was not an entirely friendly one.

"Shadya-daro!" the female exclaimed. "Fancy meeting you here!" She spoke Ta'agra with a strong east-Elsweyr twang with peculiar overtones of different flavors of Tamrielic.

The heads of those around the female turned as well. And although the other members of the tribe kept their expressions mostly impassive, Shadya could well sense the sentiment lurking underneath their apparent lack of curiosity.

"Come on, now, Ashni," she said in clear Tamrielic, ignoring all the eyes on her. "No need to pretend like I haven't spent the last four years here."

Ashni let a short hiss from between her front teeth, the same way a human might have whistled. " _Iiliten_ , does the time fly!" she said. When she spoke the common tongue she both looked and sounded somewhat strained.

"It sure does, Ashni-do," Shadya consented. "It sure does."

Ashni raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, indicating mild surprise over Shadya's uncharacteristic use of the traditional honorific. She didn't, however, comment on it, and just shook her head softly, her seemingly jovial air intact. "Seems like you were just a kit, little _roliter._ And now you're all grown up and on your own."

Shadya in turn wanted to cringe at the word meaning "sister", at the way the way Ashni had said it. Leave it for her older sibling to express volumes of meaning with just a few syllables. And Shadya didn't even want to go into the whole "on your own" bit.

_Oh, Alkosh!_ she thought. _How long must this charade go on?_

When Shadya said nothing, Ashni gestured at the scene around them. "Honestly, this one has no idea how you've been able to stand staying so long in this . . . _ice-box_!" She wrapped her arms around herself and gave a few mock shivers.

_Oh, boo-hoo! At least_ you're _wearing a nice coat with a fur lining!_ Shadya cocked her head in irritation. "Well, _I_ think," she said deliberately slow, "that it could be much worse. I could be warm and comfortable while having every choice I make be belittled by those supposed to support me." She didn't really intend to sound so passive-aggressive, but it was a little late now.

Ashni in turn said nothing, just regarded her little sister in the timeless, universal condescension of older siblings. That, as it turned out, was much worse than anything she might have said.

Shadya fumed and prepared to speak her mind further, but another figure had stood up and now walked from behind Ashni.

"Well now, girls," the tall male said, laying a hand on Ashni's shoulder. It was J'Bassa, or _S_ 'Bassa now that he'd reached maturity. He was their cousin, and although he was only a few years older, he had always liked to act like a father-figure nobody wanted. "Let's not let a happy reunion deteriorate into a quarrel from the get-go," he said, then smiled pleasantly at Shadya. "Shadya-la. So nice to see you!"

"You fork-tongued son of a _slarjeirotok_!" was the reply that automatically formed on Shadya's tongue, and it damn near slipped out as well. Underneath his seeming convivial manner, S'Bassa was as bad as the worse of them. His choice of the "honorific" _la_ , meaning "promiscuous maiden", was no unintentional slip of the tongue. Shadya knew damn well what people said about her. And she did not care.

"You too, J'Bassa," she replied with a small dip of the head, concealing her true feelings under honeyed tones. "Forgetting" to use the right honorary was a very petty attempt on her part at paying the smug bastard back for his barely camouflaged insult, but it was the best she could do in the moment.

At any rate, S'Bassa didn't seem to give it any notice. "We are having breakfast after a long journey," he said. "Why don't you join us?" He gestured at the ragtag group around the fire, supping on what looked to be mostly bread and dried fish. As Shadya looked their way, there were unenthusiastic nods of greeting to which she replied with equal lack of ardor. It was clear that nobody really wanted her to join them, and she herself the least.

"I'm sorry," she said, not even bothering to sound like she meant it, "but I have some business to attend to."

"Ah," replied S'Bassa. He didn't seem surprised by her refusal any more than he seemed to be sorry about it. "The _men_ of Skyrim do not wait."

It took Shadya all the will-power at her disposal not to return that one with a caustic reply. But she wouldn't stoop to his level. So she just bit her tongue and continued simpering as if completely clueless to the fact that her own cousin had all but just called her a "race-trading hussy" to her face.

"That's right," she said sweetly. "The men here don't waste their time wagging their tongues like a bunch of old women. Instead they act. They are truly Men." That comment as well came out a bit more aggressive than it was initially supposed to. But Shadya felt good saying it.

And by the shadow passing over S'Bassa's features, she got the gratifying confirmation that her words had found their mark. He, however, said nothing further, only bowed his head slightly to excuse himself, then returned to join the others around the fire.

Ashni still just stood there, regarding Shadya in silence, but something was a bit different in her mien. She was still clearly looking down upon her little sister, but now with some measure of respect. Neither of them had ever liked S'Bassa, but not everybody had the courage to stand up to the high ranking mage. He came not only with a fierce reputation, but also a notoriously short fuse. He was known to have once beaten his own brother up so badly the poor bastard had come within an inch of his life. And this was said to have resulted from a fairly offhand comment the brother had made about some female S'Bassa had lain with. People had the tendency to tread very lightly around the man. But Shadya wasn't afraid of him. It had been a while since she'd been afraid of anybody.

An image of the encounter last night briefly flashed in front of her eyes, but she determinedly pushed it out of her mind.

"So," she said to Ashni blithely, attempting to expel some of the burdened air between them. "Business been going well, then?"

Ashni's eyes narrowed for a second as she was probing her sister's question for signs of mockery. Then she shrugged. "Oh, you know. It's never easy. To make an honest living." Once again, her seemingly innocent words were heavily laden.

"Sure, sure," Shadya replied, determined not to let Ashni rile her up. "Lots of competition out there."

This was nearly feeling like an actual, non-hostile exchange. The sort that Shadya imagined relatives were supposed to have.

"Yeah, well," Ashni said, "it never helps that most of Tamriel think we're _all_ a bunch of thieves."

_Ah._ So much for that, then.

Shadya felt like sighing. She was, of course, under no misconception about the highly chafed relationship between people like her and people like Ashni and her band—the honest, hardworking merchants and the . . . well, _not_ that. For the merchants, _dar_ , thief, in front of a person's name was not only not considered an honorary at all, it was a byword for a highly despicable individual; even more despised a word than _jihatt_ , sellsword.

And, honestly, who could blame them? Everywhere they went, people considered them untrustworthy and dishonest. Everyone already took them for thieves. So when many of their kind actually did make their living in the unlawful way, the ones trying to make it on the straight and narrow paths of honest trade had to suffer the consequences. Little wonder they took it as the gravest possible insult how the members of their own race so blackened the name of their entire population, hampering the trade, endangering their very way of life, their whole existence.

And yet, the previous bands of merchants that had stayed at Skyrim had been happy enough to buy Shadya's loot on an occasion—never any questions asked. Not that they'd ever been particularly welcoming, but that's not what she'd been after in the first place.

But that was beside the point. In her way she _was_ sorry for the possible harm her actions might bring to her people, to her family; just not enough to let them dictate what she could and could not do with her own life. Still, she was determined not to let this meeting turn into a squabble over clashing principles. She'd never disliked her sister and didn't really want there to be bad blood between them. If she could keep things civil enough for those rare occasions that they met, who knew, maybe there might even be a way they could bury the hatchet one day.

_Here's hoping_ , she thought flatly.

For the time being, anyway, she tried her damnedest to steer the conversation clear from those rocky waters. "So, where you've been?" she asked, feeling a bit strained having to force a careless note to her voice.

"Oh, here and there," said Ashni. "Spent six months at Black Marsh, suffering headaches almost daily from the fumes, only the Skooma to keep us sane. Then we were off to Cyrodiil for a while. This one paid a quick visit at home, then met up with the rest again as they were off to High Rock. After that it was back to Cyrodiil. Once there we got a missive from the Mane's office, proclaiming a place to be opening in Skyrim for a band from our tribe. We decided to take it, then."

The way these things worked was a bit complicated. In the past there had been big problems with intertribal hostilities between different bands of travelling merchants. Even though the bands were technically supposed to exist outside of the loyalties and enmities of their tribes, in reality, of course, that was not how it worked. People took their prejudices with them wherever they went. So you could have small-scale warfare going on between the tribes, ranging from hostile murmuring to all-out aggression—acts of vendetta and even open skirmishes, some of which left all or most of the participants dead or seriously wounded. Needless to say these incidents had done nothing to improve the image of the Khajiit in the eyes of the general populace.

So ultimately the Mane, the spiritual leader of all Khajiit, had dictated a strictly observed rotation system, where at any given time merchants of two enemy tribes were not allowed to simultaneously reside and trade within the borders of the same province. One might have thought it impossible to make such a system work, but the decree was carefully dispensed by Clan mothers and after some initial difficulties had started working and had been in place ever since. It had proved to be effective too: hardly any open combat between merchants was reported these days, so either they had learned to keep such incidents hidden or they simply did not occur.

Though it was also true that the tribes in general seemed to get on a bit better these days, to a point where open warfare between them had gotten rare. Since the fall of the Confederacy and the re-establishing of the old kingdoms of Anequina and Pellitine, the tribe-centered Khajiit of the northern deserts and grasslands had lived more harmoniously than perhaps ever. Of course, they couldn't care less about what kind of central government their city-dwelling cousins belonged to—the tribal mentality ran so deeply in the blood of Shadya's kind they could never be brought under a unified banner. There would only ever be one leader all Khajiit recognized, and that was the Mane; there was nothing even the arrogant Dominion—the ones behind the assassination of his previous incarnation and the subsequent revolution—could do about that. The kingdoms might have pledged their loyalty to the Thalmor, but the Khajiit people as a whole would never become their pets.

Shadya cocked an ear at her sister. "Skyrim, huh? I thought you didn't like it here."

"We don't," Ashni said. "And S'Bassa, for one, was vehemently against it. Probably wouldn't have happened, either, but Dra'Ajira came around and said we're going." She shrugged. "That settled it."

Dra'Ajira was the leader of their pack, so her word was law.

"Huh," said Shadya.

"You know," Ashni continued with a sly sort of smile, "it was actually this one who suggested it to her: for us to come here." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Don't tell anyone!" She winked, still smiling.

Shadya was amazed how suddenly the other female's previous air of hostility had vanished, to be replaced by the sort of kittenish playfulness Shadya could remember from her childhood. But that was her sister. She, however, still frowned at the odd confession. "Why would you have done that?"

"This one wanted to see you," Ashni replied with a shrug. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"It is, actually; now that you're asking."

"Oh come, _roliter,_ " said Ashni. "Despite all the friction between you and the rest of us, at the end of it we're still family. Should that not matter more than anything?"

Shadya was admittedly dumbfounded by this sudden conviviality, but she couldn't entirely relax. She somehow suspected a hidden snag within the olive branch her sister now seemed to proffer.

"Well, I don't quite know what to say," she mumbled. "This is all kind of sudden."

Ashni laughed and Shadya could see a fierce fire kindle in her smiling eyes. "Oh, I know. Truth be told, I surprise myself. I mean: after all the times I've spent awake at night, cursing your very name. Cursed the fact that it should be my own sister, my own flesh and blood, who brings such shame to our tribe. That when the children of men spit on me and call me a lousy thief who should be stoned to death; when strange men yell and sneer at me and tell me what they'd like to do with me when they catch me alone; when the women hiss at me and call me a "Molly-whore"—that all that is at least partly your fault, of ones such as yourself . . . " An odd sound, like a bitter cackle, came out of her throat. "After all that: well, you may guess it's hard to find it in my heart to try and forgive you. And yet . . ." She gave a pained sort of smile, spread out her arms, "here I am."

Shadya was nearly overcome by the ample weight of emotion she could hear in her sister's voice. It was quite obvious it wasn't easy for her to be standing there, to be saying these things. She'd always had the curious habit of adopting a more mainstream mode of speech when agitated, and she even lost her thick accent in favor of more general inflection—quite the opposite than what happened with most people. That, combined with the broken note underneath her seemingly even tone of voice, clear and level enough to fool anyone else but one of her own family, was all Shadya needed to realize that this was as grave a conversation as she could ever have hoped not to have.

And it was _tough_. She'd never wanted to cause her sister any grief; and yet, based on what she'd just said, it was obvious Ashni had been in fact hurt a great deal by her actions, by the choices she'd made. And while Shadya had always been aware of the way her kind were seen, she still had to admit to being surprised to hear these words come out of Ashni's mouth. She was also struck with a painful recognition of how this was the moment, if there ever had been one, that she should find the right response.

But for the life of her, she couldn't think of anything.

"Uh," she said,

Ashni had an understanding smile on her lips. "It's alright," she said. "You don't have to say anything. This one just needed to get it off her chest."

"Oh . . . okay."

"It feels good," Ashni said, nodding to herself. "Yeah, it really does."

"Oh," said Shadya. "I'm . . . glad."

"Yeah." Ashni was smiling freely and her mien had visibly lightened. "This one too."

Shadya allowed herself to smile as well. An altogether unfamiliar emotion lit up about her chest, and she realized the expression on her face was uncommonly inspired by a genuine sentiment. What she felt was almost . . . _joy_? Could this really be it: could they finally be nearing the rapprochement she'd been hoping for?

She regarded the others around the fire, who, at intervals between their usual display of utter disinterest, were stealing glances at the two sisters. They did not look too pleased. She then turned away. She couldn't care less about how they felt; this was between her and Ashni, and didn't concern them in the least. If there was a chance, no matter how slim, of them coming closer again after all these wasted years, she would do what was in her power to—

"So," Ashni said, interrupting Shadya's train of thought. Her voice was tentative, the vocal equivalent of placing a foot on thin ice. "Have you, then, thought about . . . reforming your ways?"

And, just like that, Shadya felt her heart turn cold. Her smile evaporated like the morning mist driven by the rising desert sun, and everything in her seemed at once to grow dry.

So that was it: that was her point all along. Ashni wasn't reaching out to make up at all; she was just covertly manipulating Shadya, seeking a roundabout way to get her to lower her defenses so she could take her for another ride down guilt-trip lane.

_I should have known_ _!_

Ashni no doubt saw the change in her sister, realized she'd crossed a line, and her features sagged. "What I mean—"

"What you mean," Shadya interrupted, her voice icy, "is quite clear."

"I didn't—" It was obvious Ashni hadn't thought how to continue from this. She'd put all that she'd had in the one hand she'd played, risked it all, and lost.

And Shadya, for one, had no intention of giving her a chance for comeback. "It doesn't matter," she said curtly. "I believe we're done here."

A part of her said that maybe she was being too rash, that maybe her sister hadn't meant what she thought she'd meant, but a much larger part—the one familiar with the myriad ways in which her people would seek to persuade and manipulate each other—said otherwise; and that was the part in charge right now.

_She's only pretending to care! She's just like the rest of them. There will never be reconciliation between us._

Ashni visibly cast about for something redeeming to say, her mouth hanging helplessly open. It was strange to see her, always so poised and confident, at a loss like this, and Shadya nearly felt sorry for her.

Though not nearly enough. "I've got business to attend to," she said, making to walk past her confounded sister.

Ashni grabbed Shadya by the shoulder to stop her. "I'm . . ." Her eyes welled with emotion, while those that Shadya met her gaze with must have been completely cold. ". . . sorry."

_You don't yet know what "sorry" means. You_ will _be sorry!_

Despite her current emotional state, Shadya was shocked by force behind the movement of her mind, by the acerbic sentiment in it. It was almost as if the thought had been spoken by an external voice, full of contempt and almost murderous wrath. She briefly though of the Ohmes again, and had to concentrate her will in order to focus on the present.

"Yeah," she said. "Me too." She then tore herself free of her sister's hold and continued walking. "See you later, _roliter_."

"Wait—" came her sister's last feeble plea.

But it was too late. Shadya was already going, not listening any more.

And, with unwavering determination, she advanced toward the city gate, never again turning to look over her shoulder.


	13. The Prophecy

_. . . until tomorrow._

Ariela awoke with a gasp. She sat up, heart racing, breath coming out in rapid pants. She looked around, blinking.

_Where?_

It was a small room. A sliver of light leaked through the crack in the curtains, cutting the room diagonally and forming a transparent orange wall of floating dust particles. A crumpled up pile of cloth lay in the middle of the floor. The air was thick and heavy to breathe. In her ears there was a terrible, grating sound: like a rusty saw biting into bone, or like the raspy breath of some ancient beast from Oblivion.

She rubbed her eyes. In the back corner of her mind lingered a trace of some ominous dark presence that had followed her from a dream already forgotten. All that was left was the shadow of a fading memory: a gloomy shroud falling over the earth, a hateful scream in some lost language, words with power to destroy.

Then remembrance came, and Ariela calmed her breathing. It was the Bee and Barb and the room upstairs they had rented for the night. She could hear muffled voices downstairs. The place, it seemed, never died down.

A sudden wave of shame ran through her. Oh, but had she been drunk! The way she'd behaved! The things she'd been saying! The lewd jokes, the flagrancy so unlike her!

But: she'd not given anything away. She'd not revealed anything particularly sensitive to anyone. She had simply let loose, relaxed. Just been a little . . . goofy.

Goofy? _Her_?

She re-examined the room. The pile of clothes turned out to be Runa, who lay face down on the floor like she'd insisted on, leaving the small bed for Ariela. There had been only one room available for that night, or so Runa had claimed. It may have also had something to do with stinginess. And that awful, sawing noise? Well, that was Runa, too—snoring away so loudly that Ariela felt the floorboards quiver. The wool quilt covering Runa rose and fell with her heavy breathing, her undone hair a flowing blanket of sandy blond burying her face underneath it.

Ariela stretched. She was surprised to find herself not feeling half bad. In fact, she felt quite alright. She'd been sure she would have the most heinous of hangovers, but indeed: save for the little thirst and some wooziness, she felt fine.

Luck, then, for once.

She did, however, need to urinate quite urgently; so she reached under the bed for a chamber-pot and did just that.

Her eyes on Runa snoring on the floor, she smiled. The Nord would probably not be as lucky as her, considering the staggering amounts of alcohol she'd consumed. By the end of the night, she'd hardly even been able to keep on her feet. That, and she was a little older, which, as even Ariela knew, generally meant worse hangovers.

Ariela laid her head back down on the pillow. She'd probably still have a couple more hours before they needed to leave, so she might as well get some more sleep.

The next time she opened her eyes, she wished she hadn't. The glaring light stung her eyes, and she was immediately forced to squeeze them back shut. A tidal wave of nausea swept her from head to toe, and her head pulsed agonizingly with every pounding heartbeat. She pressed her hands over her temples and let out a long groan. Surely this was death!

"Morning!" bid a chipper voice.

Ariela carefully pried open one eye while holding her hand up as attempted protection from the horrible light, an effort only partly successful.

Runa was grinning. She stood in the middle of the room, as energetic as ever, clothed and hair redone in its carefully crafted braid.

Curse her! How did she do it?

"How are you feeling this morning?" inquired the woman with some measure of taunt.

"Awful," Ariela replied, though not with any recognizable lexemes. Simply opening her mouth threatened to let out an emission of sick.

Runa shook her head ruefully. "You know, you really shouldn't drink so much."

Ariela raised her hand in an offensive gesture doubtfully familiar to the Nord.

Runa chuckled. There was the rustle of her searching her pocket. "Here," she said.

Ariela felt something land on her blanket. She opened her eyes to find a small, pink vial laying on her lap.

"Drink it," Runa prompted.

By now, Ariela didn't need an explanation for everything. So she opened the vial with shaking hands and drained the bitter liquid inside. She gagged a little but held the fluid down. After just a small while, a sensation of ease spread though her, the nausea subsiding and the awful throbbing in her head dying down. Her heart calmed to a steady beat and no longer felt as if it was on its last mad dash at the gates of dissolution.

"Thank Julianos!" she sighed. She carefully sat up on her bed, half expecting the onslaught to start again. It didn't.

Runa snorted. "No," she said. "Thank the Khajiit alchemist I bought a sackful of this stuff from. It wasn't cheap, mind you."

Ariela looked at the taller woman. "How much do I owe you?"

"Never mind that," Runa said with a wave of hand. "Stands to reason I treat you to a cure to a sickness I paid to inflict in the first place."

True enough.

"You must have spent a fortune yesterday," said Ariela, "much more than you made killing Grushnag. Maybe I should—"

"Forget it," said Runa. "I have a tab here. Plus remember that blade I got from the cave? Well, I let 'em have it."

Ariela's brows went up. "That must have been worth—"

"A good night out," the Nord cut in. "Yeah, couldn't agree with you more." She gave Ariela a big smile and a wink.

"Well, if you say so . . ."

"I say so," Runa confirmed.

_Can't argue with that,_ Ariela thought. She started to look around for her things. At least it didn't seem like she'd lost anything, a fact which certainly brought its own relief. Her knapsack full of books stood unmolested by the door.

Runa sat down on a small stool, lacing a boot. "Better get ready," she said. "We don't want to be late for your . . . whatever it was."

Ariela frowned. "We?"

"Yup," Runa replied, smiling. "I'm coming with you."

Confusion, excitement, and, admittedly, worry battled for the podium within Ariela's mind. "You are?" she said. "I mean, I thought you were headed for business . . . someplace."

Well," Runa said, pulling on another boot, " _sister._ " She turned her smile at Ariela. "I changed my mind."

In a sense, of course, this should have been good news. But that didn't stay Ariela's growing sense of disquietude. In fact, despite partly wanting nothing more than the company of her new friend for the journey ahead, she just couldn't take the risk of including Runa. She didn't know exactly what lay ahead, but her senses were warning her of some danger, and she could not stand the idea of endangering the safety of this cordial and, ultimately, likable woman.

"I'm sorry," she said with a heavy heart. "But I have to do this alone."

"Nonsense," came Runa's resolute reply. "It's no trouble; my earlier engagement can certainly wait."

Ariela gave the other woman a melancholy smile. "No, it's not that," she said. "Runa, I appreciate all your help and, of course, your company, but this is where we must part. I have to go to Winterhold alone."

"Well, see now, that's your problem right there."

Ariela frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The carriage you were going to take? Well, it hasn't been going all the way to Winterhold for a couple of years now."

"What?!" Ariela cried.

"Yup. Something about there not being enough passengers to justify the dangerous journey or somesuch."

Ariela was flabbergasted. "You might have told me!"

Runa simply shrugged. "You didn't ask."

"Runa!"

This was not the news Ariela had been anticipating. What would she do now?

"Hey, not to worry," Runa said. "I'll give you a ride."

"Oh no," Ariela said. "I don't think I can take that long of a trip." In fact, her butt was sore just thinking about it.

"Alright. What about from Windhelm, then?"

Ariela thought about it, trying to estimate the distance from the map in her head. "Well, I suppose I could _probably_ tolerate that . . ."

"It's settled, then," Runa said, smiling. "I'll come with you on the carriage and we ride from Windhelm."

Ariela frowned. "Wait, how can you give me a ride if you leave Frost here?"

"I won't. He can follow after us."

"Why won't you simply ride him the whole way?"

"I could use a little more rest myself," Runa replied. "And I don't sleep too well on horseback." Then she came up to Ariela, put her hand on her shoulder. "Trust me, it's actually better this way. I know someone in Windhelm we can get a free lunch from. Nice wine, too."

Ariela raised a brow. "You know somebody everywhere, don't you?"

"Pretty much."

Ariela shook her head. This was all she needed. But what could she do? Taking Runa up on her offer was more or less her only hope. She was annoyed, but at the same time had to admit to feeling glad she'd have the Nord's company for a little while longer. Certainly no serious harm could come from this.

So they once again headed out together. The day had broken at least as cold as it had been in the evening, and the morning sun was bathing the dark buildings of the city with rusty gold. Clouds of vapor from their breaths trailed them as they made their way through the streets of Riften. Not many people besides them were out yet, but the city looked to be slowly waking up.

Ariela didn't feel fresh, exactly, but the hangover was gone save for a vague feeling of uncertainty. According to Runa, the potion took care of most of the after effects of drinking, but would still leave your body and mind with a certain tangible memory of the night before. Not a complete cure, then, as was made clear by the way it left her feeling. The vague sense of dread, that had more or less been her constant companion for as long as she could remember, seemed slightly worse today.

The same guards as before still stood—or rather _slouched—_ guard outside the gate. They eyed the women with disdain but wisely kept their silence.

"I gotta take a leak," Runa told Ariela. "Go on ahead and reserve the carriage."

As Runa turned to walk besides the wall, she ran into a dark haired man walking hurriedly out of the gate.

"Watch where you're going, woman!" he snapped.

"No, _you_ watch where _you're_ going, little man," Runa said. "This isn't a race track, you know."

They stared at each other for a charged minute. The man was shorter than Runa, and was obviously irked by her "little man" crack. He regarded the woman with dark, intense eyes. He looked Breton, with pitch black short hair and a trimmed goatee of the same hue. And while he didn't really look abnormal in any way, there was still something in his presence, some inexplicable darkness that made Ariela feel uneasy.

Finally the man just hissed, then walked on. He stormed past Ariela, got on a large brown horse waiting in front of the stables, and rode away without a second glance.

Runa shrugged, then went about her business.

The driver of the carriage had changed from the old man yesterday to a much younger one. There was a strong resemblance, so Ariela guessed this was the son of the other man. She informed him of their destination, then climbed on in the back to wait for Runa.

She reached in her satchel and dug out the bread she's stashed for breakfast. Munching on it, she regarded the driver who, despite the chill weather, wore a vest with no shirt underneath. The muscles in his arms were quite well formed, flexed as the man leaned back with his hands tucked behind his neck. Ariela could imagine the strength in those arms. She pictured them bending down some pretty young girl, holding her down as he entered her. Would his bulkiness continue all the way down?

_Oh dear!_ she thought, feeling her cheeks burn. _I'm I starting to adopt Runa's dirty mind, aren't I?_

Speaking of whom, the Nord jumped aboard the carriage, making the whole thing rock. She sat down on the opposite seat to Ariela.

"Alright boy! To Windhelm," she instructed the driver. "And please, don't dawdle. Get us there swiftly and safely, and there might even be a special reward for you— _if you know what I mean_."

Runa winked evocatively and clicked her tongue—a gesture far more comical than it was seductive.

_No,_ Ariela decided. _I'm never going to quite reach her level._

There was a loud snorting sound behind her back then, making her jump. Runa laughed as Ariela regarded Frost standing beside the carriage with wide eyes. She could swear the horse had a sneer on him too . . .

Then, with Frost following close behind them, they left.

The carriage ride, it turned out, was every bit as uncomfortable as Ariela had feared. The vehicle swayed side-to-side, and her bony behind kept making ill-fitting contact with the hard wood. She tried to direct her focus on the beautiful morning landscape to get her attention away from the discomfort.

The slanted, golden sunlight adorned the mountains and the hills, and together with the refreshing gush of wind brought Ariela's tender body and mind a measure of relief. There was something utterly purifying about such contact with the wild beauty of nature, something she'd always found true.

The young aspens lining the road bore lavish batches of round, yellow-brown leaves, the vivid color of which was amplified by the sun. The brilliant foliage gave Ariela the impression of glittering gold Septims, though the wealth they spoke of meant much more to her than did the base units of monetary value.

Runa, on the other hand, indicated no interest in the magnificent scenery. Instead she brought out a leather canteen from her belt, poured some of its content down her throat, and winced.

She offered the skin to Ariela. "Brandy," she croaked. "Good stuff—hair of the frost troll, as they say."

Ariela put up a rejecting hand. "No thanks," she said.

In fact, it was her firm intention to stay away from beverages of that nature for quite some time to come.

Runa shrugged and took another long swig. Then she restoppered the canteen and tucked it back under her belt. "Think I'll have a little shut-eye," she said. "Wake me up if something strange happens. Like, say, if the driver-boy decides to try and ravish me. I should hope to at least be awake to enjoy it."

She closed her eyes, the mischievous little smirk so typical for her playing on her lips.

Ariela shook her head quietly. The woman never gave it a rest, did she?

The fact was, though, that she herself felt an uneasy tickle around her . . . nether region. Despite having ingested the hangover cure, the alcohol—coupled with the tiredness on account of not getting too much sleep—had left her body restless, and urges she normally kept in check with ease now threatened to run rampant.

In addition, she had a persistent, vague headache, and periodically she thought her vision blurred for a fraction of a second. Did she remember incorrectly, or weren't those early symptoms of Brain Rot? Maybe a rat had bitten her while she'd been unconscious in the cave!

The thought gave her a sudden fright, and her heart picked up pace. No! She was just being paranoid, surely. She raised her hands in front of her. No, not too shaky—so in any case the disease couldn't have progressed very far. At least there was that.

Ariela shook her head. _Calm down, you fool,_ she scolded herself. _You're. Just. Being. Paranoid._

To give herself something else to think about, she reached inside her knapsack. She glanced at Runa, making sure the Nord was sleeping, and when she seemed to be, brought out a book with a worn-out cover. Needless to say, that's how all her books were; scholarly works seldom got reprinted.

Ariela cracked the book open in the middle where there was a folded piece of paper. It was the letter sent to her by the principal of the Guild, Cicero Herennius. She unfolded the tattered note to once again read out the message conveyed therein. It was, perhaps a tad over-cautiously, written in the Guild's secret code, which Ariela had learned to read with pretty much the same ease as ordinary writ.

Translated, the note said: _"Dearest Ariela, I hope this letter finds you without delay, though I cannot say I trust these fools of messengers of the College too much. Nevertheless, I contact you on account of our research. These past weeks have revealed to me some possibilities I hadn't even imagined before. Unfortunately, though, I seem to have encountered some inconvenient and unforeseen health problems, and thus find it impossible to carry on without help. I need someone I can trust, and under the circumstances only you, dear girl, come to mind._

_"So I beseech you: travel to meet me at the College of Winterhold in Skyrim as soon as you can. You may show this letter to Plitinius (though I suspect his curious eyes will end up seeing this before yours, anyway. Yes, I'm talking about_ you _Inspector Snoopy!) and he will help you with the necessary arrangements. I hope to see you soon! Yours, Cicero Herennius._

_"PS. I'm including a list of books I need you to bring me. This backwards province is seriously lacking in literature, despite the admittedly impressive collection Urag gro-Shub (now there's a shining pearl in a bag of dull marbles!) has managed to accumulate during his long years in this Nine-forgotten cold-pantry of the world. How they've come this far from flinging dung at each other, I'll never know. Anyway, I hope the books won't hinder you too badly, but I really do need those. C"._

Ariela lifted her eyes from the letter. Every time she read it, she got a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of her stomach. That the Principal would find _her_ to be the person to put his trust in made her feel extraordinarily proud, despite realizing how improper a feeling that was for someone who'd dedicated her life for the gratuitous service of knowledge and wisdom.

But the sense of pride and purpose did not come without the uninvited company of a dark premonition. She refolded the paper and closed the book around it. The tome itself was not included in the list, but it was one that Ariela had taken to carrying with her as a default. It was called _The Book of the Dragonborn_ , written by Prior Emelene Madrine.

Ariela stared transfixed at the symbol on the cover: a dragon with sharply shaped wings and tail—the emblem of Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time. It was, of course, the one symbol you couldn't keep from seeing if you lived within the borders of the Empire. It was imprinted on all the Imperial symbols, its flags and banners, on the tail side the Septim coin. It was the official symbol of the Empire. Simple, elegant and powerful; standing not only for the power of the realm, but the divine blessing that was supposed to stand behind it.

The Dragonborn were a rare class of individuals who were said to have been born with the blood and soul of a dragon. According to the book, written during the Septim dynasty, the ruling family had strong ties with the phenomenon, and indeed claims that " _all the legitimate rulers of the Empire have been Dragonborn_ ". The origin of the Dragonborn was not known, but it was thought their rise was tied to the covenant between Alessia, the founder of the Cyrodilic Empire, and Akatosh himself. It was an agreement the basis of which was that the Dragon God had promised to keep the Gates of Oblivion sealed and the Nirn safe from Oblivion's sinister denizens, as long as the so-called Dragonfires were kept lit in the Temple of the One in the Imperial City, and a legitimate heir of the Septim dynasty sat the throne.

This had all, of course, culminated at the end of the Third Era, when Marin Septim had sacrificed his own life in order to become Akatosh's avatar, defeating the Daedra Lord Mehrunes Dagon and so ending the Oblivion crisis. The petrified avatar still stood at the middle of the ruined Temple, forever symbolizing the defensive victory of Mundus over Oblivion, the sealing of the boundaries between them, which undid any future attempt at invasion.

Ariela had countless times spent a long time just looking at it, marveling at the majestic effigy—the great marble dragon, its back arched and neck craned as if about to air out a mighty cry of victory—and at its profound significance. And also wondering: could it really be true? Was the threat permanently over? Were they really safe?

The book, however, did not only settle for describing the extraordinary qualities of Septim emperors or their dealings with the Divines. It ended with an account of an ancient foretelling called The Prophesy of Dragonborn, according to which "at the end of time" the world would be seeing the "Last of the Dragonborn".

The arrival of such an individual, then, would be preceded by a certain set of events. And that was where it got interesting. For the Guild did not easily deal with ancient prophesies and old wives' tales. The thing was, though, that after a careful reading, there were those who thought that many of these portents mentioned in the text had come to pass. Cicero Herennius was one of those people, and one could not easily blame him for being a superstitious man.

That didn't mean his ideas had been widely accepted. In fact it would have been more accurate to say they had faced a wall of unanimous skepticism, even downright ridicule. That was not uncommon, of course, the Guild was known for its fiery debates, and for the fact that it was considered to be perfectly acceptable to question the views of absolutely anyone. Someone with delicate, vulnerable self-esteem did not fare well in such an environment.

And it _was_ dubious, of course. Interpreting a prophecy was more or less the same as interpreting poetry. You could read pretty much anything into it, if you were so inclined. However, the last line of the prophecy said that the Last Dragonborn arrives when "The World Eater" awakes. That was the most clearly written part of the prophecy, for it was pretty much common knowledge that "The World Eater" was one name for the mythical ancient dragon Alduin, who, according to the story, was trapped in time by ancient Nord Heroes with the help of an Elder Scroll, and was to one day return and bring about the end of the world.

This was what had originally captured Herennius' interest. For there was an incident during the Civil War of Skyrim, when the town of Helgen was mostly burned down. The Empire had declared it a surprise attack by the Stormcloaks looking to free their leader Ulfric, who'd been captured by the Empire and was just about to be executed. But a persistent rumor lived on since then, that during the attempted execution, a dragon had appeared out of nowhere, incinerating the town. After the attack it disappeared, never to be seen again. Many swore that the dragon had been Alduin himself, resurfaced from the mists of Time.

From the start this theory was scorned as nonsense, but it was Herennius' conviction that no respectable scholar could dismiss such a radical claim offhand. So he started looking into it, keeping the whole subject as a personal hobby of his whenever his other duties lent him an hour here and another there. He had chosen Ariela, just an upstart at the time, to assist him. There were those who told her that she was only encouraging the "old fool" but she happened to disagree. She greatly admired the dedication and fervor of the old scholar, and fully respected his conviction to study this unpopular and ridiculed subject.

And it was this subject that had sent Herennius to Skyrim. Many had disagreed with his decision to leave, but he was not a man easily persuaded. So he let the deputy principal take over the Guild while he was away, and set out to study the land that had originated the whole mystery. And in fact, there was another phenomenon that had drawn his attention to the northern province. For the past couple decades, several accounts from all around Skyrim suggested disconcertingly increased activity of—

"Daedra."

Ariela was so startled that she actually jumped a little on her seat.

Runa was smiling. Her eyes were drowsy, yet animated. "Don't worry, none around here. Just mentioned the concept."

Ariela settled her nerves and forced a wan smile. "A rather random thing to evoke, don't you think?" she said, while battling an utterly moronic fear that Runa had somehow managed to read her mind.

"Your scholarship?"

"Hum?"

"You told me earlier your scholarship is specialized in the Daedra."

"Oh," said Ariela, concealing relief. "Yeah, I did. I mean, it does."

"So what does that mean exactly? You capture a Flame Atronach and poke it with a stick?"

Ariela laughed, in her own ears still sounding uneasy. "No, not like that. We never delve into them physically. I fact, we make sure to stay as far away from them as possible."

"So, what then?"

"Well, we read about them. Write papers about them. Speculate about their nature. That sort of stuff."

"Sounds exiting," said Runa flatly.

"Oh, but it is!" Ariela became animated. "Did you know that there is still not agreement over what the Daedra even are? I mean, we know they exist, right? We know they are powerful, and we know they're not, supposedly at least, in any way related to us. And yet their fundamental nature is still shrouded in mystery. How do we know the official theories about them really hold true? We know people deal with them to gain various advantages, even control them to a limited extent, but what do the Daedra themselves want?"

Runa shrugged. "As long as they stay out my way, I must say I can't be bothered to care."

"But aren't you at all curious?" Ariela was starting to get excited again, now that she had her feet back on her own turf. "Consider how much attention our religions and our scholars give the Aedra, and yet who has ever caught as much as a glimpse of one of them? And, at the same time, the religious authorities of today tend to treat Daedra as a taboo: something a scholar should probably steer clear of—or at least unless they agree to work within the limits of very specific preconditions and parameters. The Daedra are treated almost like an altogether inconsequential phenomenon, even though they are known to constantly interact with inhabitants of Nirn."

Those interactions, in fact, had seemed to have increased; at least here in Skyrim. This, however, Ariela left unsaid.

"Don't you see the problem?" she went on. "There's so much we need to know, yet the search of further knowledge has been practically ruled illegitimate. Flat out forbidden, even! "

"Forbidden, huh?" Runa grunted. "Sounds like stuff of Hermaeus Mora to me."

Ariela made a reflexive warding gesture, forming the triangle of Julianos with her hands. "No," she said firmly. "We especially don't deal with _him_."

What scholar could say that the thought had never entered her mind? Who hadn't contemplated the potential benefits of dealing with the Daedric Prince of arcane knowledge? All the things you could learn if given even just the minutest of glimpses at the vast libraries of Apocrypha! But the Guild was adamant about it: any attempt to contact Hermaeus Mora in any way led to an immediate and irrevocable expulsion. There were things that needed to be left unmeddled with.

"Well, anyway," Ariela said, eager to leave that digression behind her. "Perhaps I'm being a bit over dramatic. After all, it's not like anybody really has the power, or ultimately even the will, to try to limit us or tell us what we can and cannot study. It's simply frustrating at times how difficult it is to try and get the information that I need from the official sources, not to mention the church, when their policies seem to be run by superstitious fear."

"Superstitious?" Runa said, cocking a brow. "Wasn't it just you who practically broke into an exorcism ritual over me—simply because I happened to mention the name of a Daedric Prince?"

"It's not the same," said Ariela. "Exercising caution in one thing. Closing your eyes, ears, and mouth completely over fear they might get taken over by impure spirits is another. Things of very different order, I'd say."

"So, you're saying the Daedra are not evil then?"

"Well, no."

"'No' what?"

"No, I'm not saying that. And no, they aren't."

Ariela smiled inside over her own clumsy argumentation. It was a good thing this wasn't one of the debate nights back at the Guild.

When her self-contradiction only prompted Runa to stare at her with confusion, she continued. "What I mean is it's not a yes-or-no question. The true nature of the Daedra, and specifically the Daedric Princes, is ambivalent at best. But what they _are_ is powerful. Staggeringly powerful! They are not like us, Runa. Not like mortals. One should be advised not to meddle too much with things so far beyond one's scope of understanding."

Runa gave a somewhat conciliatory shrug.

"But see," Ariela said, "that is precisely why it is so important that we study them. Ultimately, it all comes down to questions about the nature of reality itself. What is our existence based on? How did it all come to be? How far is The Monomyth to be relied on?"

"I thought the Eight Divines were supposed to have all that down already," Runa said, and not without some audible sarcasm.

As a reaction, Ariela snorted—perhaps a touch too vehemently. She couldn't help but feel a bit disrespectful. After all, it wasn't like she was in any way opposed to the clergy, and indeed tended to share most of their basic beliefs. It was just that she was frustrated with their stubborn refusal to acknowledge the importance of daedric studies. It was the fear of those accursed Thalmor and the limitations they imposed: of that she was quite sure.

"The Church of the Eight Divines is well-meaning," she said. "I've no doubt about that. Sometimes I just wish they showed a little more . . . backbone. Less dogma, more spirit of inquiry. That's all."

Runa looked thoughtful for a while. "Sounds to me you think they should be more like yourself."

That was probably true, Ariela had to admit. It did always irk her when people refused to see what was clearly the best way of doing things. Could she help it if the best way also happened to be _hers_?

She looked at the passing countryside, taking a deep breath. Once again she felt her mood improved by being able to talk about these things. This was her element. She was, in the full meaning of a word, a scholar. It did, of course, hurt her academic sensibilities to have to so simplify complex matters; but for the sake of conversation with a layman like Runa, it was absolutely necessary, lest she wanted to spend hours explaining. She actually would have loved to do just that, but she doubted Runa would have been able to take it.

Runa went for the canteen again. She took a long drink, swallowing loudly, the muscles of her throat rippling, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and proffered the drink to Ariela.

"Sure you don't want some?"

Ariela raised a hand, wrinkling her nose with a curt shake of the head.

"Suit yourself," the Nord said, then chucked the last dregs of the brandy down her throat with a quick flick of the wrist. She belched and tossed the empty flagon on the carriage floor.

Ariela focused her eyes on a passing mountain in the east, the sun cresting its peak, making it glow like it was ablaze. In her mind's eye, as though through some barely transparent veil between time and space, she could see a scaly winged apparition circling the mountaintop. She imagined that a terrifying scream blared through the air, echoing in the valleys of the forest, and actually had to turn to look at Runa to see if she'd heard it too. But the woman had closed her eyes and was leaning her head on the side board of the carriage, showing no signs of disturbance.

Ariela looked again, but the vision had passed. Only the lonely mountaintop remained, and behind it the golden rays of sunlight. She felt a shiver. Usually she could tell the difference between her fancies and reality right away, but this felt different somehow. Like for a passing moment she'd seen straight into some alternative facet of reality: some permutation in its near infinite potentialities.

She shook such silliness right out of her head. Tiredness was simply making her imagination run wild.

A yawn forced her jaws wide open. Perhaps she could also manage to take a little rest. She lifted her knapsack off the floor and set it on the bench next to her. Then she lay down, setting her head on the lumpy bag, and closed her eyes. She spent what felt like a long time drifting in the interface between dream and reality. And while there, she could sense somewhere in the distance a strange, eye-like orb that seemed to have its attention fixed on her. And whatever it was, she knew it could see things—things no one else could.

When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of dragons.

 


	14. The Transaction

A very dark cloud seemed to accompany her to the city.

The guards at the gate with their dirty looks; the good, honorable citizens of Skyrim stepping out of her way with something akin to superstitious terror in their complacent little cow-eyes; even the city's gray stone-and-palisade walls hoarding the whole frail pageant of civilization within its frightened circuit in a vain attempt to shut out the wild, the uncalculated, the uncontrollable; all those chafed Shadya's hide at the best of times. But right now it was difficult enough for her not to lash out at it all, to not hiss in the faces of this crowd of gutless automatons with their feet of clay and their heads of sawdust. Not to even speak of the more violent urges moving within her heart: the grim desire to show them all that the thing they were so afraid of was in fact every bit as dangerous as they'd feared; to bare her claws, to spring on the next ogling maggot-face and to splatter the ground with their thin, worthless blood.

Shadya knew, however, that it was not just the city and its inhabitants getting to her. The looks, the whispers, the scorn—she was well used to them by now, and they didn't usually much bother her. And the simple fact that just a few minutes ago she'd treated the sight of the city with uncharacteristic delight was enough to prove there was a different factor at play. She hardly needed to specify it.

_Family!_

Ashni's words kept playing over and over again in her head. The worst part had been watching the way her sister's true intentions had snaked their way into her mien, albeit decked out in the guise of false coyness. The whole thing wouldn't have even hurt her so bad if there hadn't been that accursed flicker of hope that maybe this time around things could be different. But of course they weren't. They were never different. Things never changed.

And neither did people.

She swallowed hard and let the bitterness in her mouth sink all the way down to the bottom of her stomach. There it could serve a purpose, at least: to feed the coffers of bile that had fueled her this far. She didn't need anyone's acceptance. They could keep their love and respect. She needed no one. All she needed was herself, her skills, her cleverness and strength. All she needed was gold.

And it was time to acquire some more.

Shadya marched without looking around, navigating straight toward the Bannered Mare at the side of the market place which, as was typical to its kind, consisted of a few sales booths and a couple of buildings encircling the town well. Passing the market she made the mistake of passingly meeting the eye of some warrior past his prime leaning on the pillar of a storefront. The man's eyes quickly ran up and down the length of her feline form, and he shot her a filthy leer. Shadya promptly looked away and walked on before she caught any of whatever was in the fellow's mind, should he choose to speak it. Some other man lay prone on the ground in front of the steps leading up to the inn. She stepped over the heap of mannish garbage, scaled the steps and pushed in through the door.

A wall of stuffy air received Shadya upon entering, and she had switch to breathing through her mouth to keep the stench of alcohol from knocking her out. Without taking too careful a look at the place, she marched straight to the bar counter, where an obese Orc was just about to receive his breakfast. The barmaid on the other side laid a grilled chicken breast, a plate of sausages, fried bread, and several boiled cream treats, plus three bottles of ale on the hefty Orsimer's tray. The heavyset member of the proud elven pariah tossed a small bag of coin on the counter and, without waiting around for change, picked up the tray.

While Shadya was waiting her turn, she noticed in the corner of her eye—the place, it seemed, where all kinds of unpleasantness tended to happen—that a party of drunken-looking warriors sitting by the roaring hearth in the middle of the room were ogling at her. The corner of her ear, apparently not wanting to miss out on the action, caught a piece of their dialogue.

"Nice and curvy, if you ask me," one of them shared to his mates. "If not a bit furry for my tastes."

There were some laughs at that.

"I don't know," grunted another. "I wouldn't mind trying me some of that." The man gave a greasy chuckle. "Yeah. Just lift up that tail and—"

That was the part at which Shadya forced herself to stop listening. By this point, in any case, it was her turn. The fat Orc briefly turned his wobbly face in her direction, gave her form a cursory sweep of the eye, gave a grunt and then went on with his loot, waddling painstakingly to look for a free table.

Ysolda, the barmaid and the owner of the inn, gave a nod. "Morning, Shadya," she said, and raised a thin eyebrow to an inquisitive arch. "The usual?"

When Shadya nodded, Ysolda reached under the counter, produced a bottle of mead with her right hand, while placing her left one on the counter palm down. When she removed her hand, a purple vial was left in its place. Shadya quickly snatched the vial off the table and into her satchel, replacing it with a handful of Septims.

Ysolda swept the gold off without counting and nodded as a sign of satisfactorily concluded transaction. "So," she said, opening up an ale for herself, "had a rough night?" There was genuine empathy in her voice. The woman was one of the few locals that treated a Khajiit with any measure of respect.

Shadya took a swig of the mead and cringed involuntarily. It was the drink that did it, not Ysolda's question. "Eh, had worse," she said, meaning the night, not the drink. As far as she was considered, the drinks were all equally nasty. "Is he here?"

The Nord woman tossed her head, her eyes fixed over Shadya's shoulder. She meant the individual room over at the other side. The kitchen.

"Alone?"

"Aye," Ysolda said. "As usual."

Shadya finished her drink with a quick flick of the wrist, trying to hold her breath in order to taste it as little as possible.

The Nord smiled at that a little, but didn't comment. "Sure I can't interest you in some Sap?"

It was the same question every time. Sleeping Tree Sap, a hallucinogenic drug, was Ysolda's specialty. She'd been pushing it for years, even though her finances in no way required it. Suppose everyone needed a hobby.

Shadya shook her head. "I see enough devils as it is."

Ysolda grunted. "Suit yourself. I'll ask again, though."

"You do that," Shadya replied. "Take care, now"

She turned around, swept right past the leering drunkards around the fire without sparing them as much as a cursory glance, and walked to the kitchen. The room was stifling hot from the cooking spit roaring at its center, and was so permeated by the scents of different foodstuffs that Shadya found herself overwhelmed. Cooking implements, dishes, and ingredients cluttered the shelves and tables, and she couldn't understand for the life of her how someone could spend their working day in such hellish conditions. In addition to the fire, the room was lit by candles, and the flickering lights flooded the walls with dancing shadows, making Shadya's head spin if she focused on them for too long.

At the back was a small table with two chairs, and in one of the stairs sat a man, his head bowed above his plate filled with food. The man was slight in frame and dressed in travel-worn clothes, and if one had unexpectedly caught a sight of him sitting there in the corner, one might have supposed a drifter had snuck into the kitchens from the streets after a bite to eat.

But Shadya knew the man and treated the odd little Bosmer as the most welcome sight that she'd yet been presented with today.

She walked to the dining client, and the Bosmer looked up, giving her a most amiable smile.

"Ah, miss Shadya," the client said in his warm baritone. "A most welcome sight!"

"Uh-huh," Shadya said, sitting down. She snatched an apple off the tray at the middle of the table. "I get that a lot."

The client gently set aside his utensils and steepled his fingers in front of him, settling down to an anticipatory stance. Munching on the fruit, Shadya reached inside her satchel and placed the ominous object on the table between them.

"Excellent," said the Bosmer.

"That's what I do," replied Shadya. "Excel." She took a pitcher of water and poured herself a glass.

The smiling client picked up the dagger, examined it against the shifting light. "Indeed you do," he said. "Indeed you do."

While the Bosmer was entranced examining the glimmering weapon in his hands, Shadya took the opportunity to study him while pretending to focus on her drink. She usually had little interest in people who hired her services, only the money they could bestow on her. And though she couldn't say she'd wasted much thought on this one either, there was admittedly something very intriguing about the man. Despite being garbed very unassumingly—in a green-and-brown tunic, short breeches, and a shabby green tricorn—he gave out a very particular and refined impression. With his spotless comportment and his clipped, measured manner of speech, the impression one was left with was precisely that of dealing with a man of aristocracy. Yet his way of conduct carried none of the hallmarks of the high born, with none of the snooty arrogance you could almost invariably expect..

He was a puzzle, in other words, and Shadya had ever found herself intrigued by those.

Then, suddenly, the Bosmer's sharp gaze slid off the blade of the dagger, and met with hers. Perhaps he guessed exactly what was going on inside her head, for his eyes twinkled, and he flashed her a sly grin. It took Shadya all the strength of her trained game face not to flinch under the man's scrutiny.

"This here," the Bosmer said, placing the dagger back on the table. The weapon's color seemed to alter in the fluctuating light, changing from malachite-green to gilt and back again. The many jewels adorning the top and bottom of the hilt emitted an enticing glitter. "Have you any idea how old it is?"

To Shadya, the man's question sounded almost like a taunt. As in: "do you have any clue of how cheaply you're letting this baby go?" Feigning disinterest, she replied with a shake of her head.

The Bosmer smiled. "Good. Because neither do I." He chuckled at that, and poured himself a glass of wine. "But I can tell you it's older that anyone alive, that's for sure."

Shadya wasn't sure how to reply. Clearly this fellow had his own peculiar sense of humor. She decided to do nothing.

After a sip of wine, the client swept the weapon off the table and put it in a backpack by his feet.

"Nevertheless," he said. "I sincerely thank you for a job well done. Now, what did we agree about the price again?"

"You said two thousand Septims."

"Did I, now? Well, you might have caught me in a stingy mood! What do you say about three thousand?"

Shadya swallowed hard. She felt her heart start beating faster, as she'd not anticipated this kind of turn. Usually the clients tried to bring the price _down_ at the time of transaction, if anything. This here was practically unheard of. "Excuse me?" she said, her voice cracking in a most dastardly way.

The Bosmer gave a brief chuckle. "I said three thousand. After all, the exact value of this item might indeed far exceed my master's initial estimations. You see, this sort of artisanship has not existed in this word for centuries. I'm afraid I might be scamming you. Three thousand is the least I can pay you. Or would you like _four_ , perhaps?"

"Huh?" Shadya coughed, and had to take a quick gulp from the water in front of her. "I mean, that won't be necessary. Three will do just fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

Shadya felt like her paws might start to shake at any moment now. Why had she said 'no' to four thousand? It had simply seemed way too good to be true, she realized, and was afraid that this would turn out to be some strange dream if she went too far. And in any case, three thousand should be plenty for her present needs.

_Coward!_ mocked a distant voice in the back of her mind. Despite feeling an unsettling sting of discomfiture, she decided to ignore it.

"Then it's settled," replied the Bosmer buoyantly. "And the matter of payment? The usual?"

Afraid to use her voice, Shadya nodded. She had a deal with Ysolda: the woman would hold on to any large sums of money for her, skimming only a very fair interest off the top. It was certainly less risky than carrying large amount of currency on her, and as she lived a mobile life with no steady roof over her head, this was the by far best arrangement for her. It helped that she considered the bar owner to be the one person in the world Shadya felt she could trust. As to why, she had no idea.

"Alright," she said, patting the tabletop and making to rise. "I guess we're done here." Despite playing it cool, she was starting to feel a bit giddy. _An extra thousand! Looks like New Life Festival came early this year._

"One more thing, if you please." The Bosmer's voice was soft but insistent.

Shadya settled back down, trying to feel as casual as she was acting. "Shoot."

"You never asked me who it is that I serve."

Shadya shrugged. "I never cared."

"Disinterested," the man said contemplatively. "I can respect you not wanting to know."

"And yet you're about to tell me."

"It is the specific wish of my master, Gazalem Nightvale, that the people who work for him are also aware of it."

"Gazalem, huh? What's his story, then?"

The client smiled. "He is what generally gets called 'eccentric'—though I'm afraid that might be a slight underestimation. A fabulously rich man of my own race, he resides in a mansion located in a remote part of Valenwood. Hardly anyone has ever seen him, or even knows what he looks like. Some even question his very existence! Nobody really knows his real story, only rumors abound. It is said, for example—" The man smiled an odd, ironic sort of smile. "—that he is no younger than two thousand years old. They say his nearly impossibly old age is what makes him so interested in treasures of great antiquity, of which he is said to own by far the largest collection in the entire world. And yet, his thirst for more is quite unquenchable."

Shadya yawned. "Sounds like an interesting fella, alright."

The Bosmer grunted softly, continuing to regard Shadya with a little smile playing on his thin lips. "Yes. Now, there is another reason I mention him."

"Which is?"

The Bosmer laid his hands palms down on the table and leaned closer. "You have proved yourself to be a trustworthy and skillful employee: with this latest job as well as the ones you've done for us before. And the thing my master likes almost as much as relics is reliability."

Shadya shrugged again. "What can I say? I'm honored."

"Yes. Well, my master would be more than happy to do more than merely _honor_ you, if only you're interested."

"Meaning what, more work?"

"This dagger is not the only object in Skyrim my master is currently interested in acquiring. There is another, quite possibly one of even greater antiquity, and almost certainly of greater value. And much like this one, its current owner hasn't the faintest idea of its true value. Lucky for us!"

"And does that also mean—"

"Yes, it means an even fatter paycheck for you. Say, how does . . . _double_ sound?"

Shadya felt her throat dry up in an instant. "You mean . . . double the . . . "

"The previous one; yes, that is exactly what I mean. Three thousand . . . no, let us say _four_ thousand times two. That would make it eight thousand Septims. Does that sound to you like a fair enough compensation for your troubles, Miss Shadya?"

Shadya had never been one for many words, but she'd never had trouble finding the right ones when she needed them. Right at the moment, though, it was as if the ability of stringing words into meaningful sequences had been completely erased from her mind. She simply stared at the Bosmer dumbly, trying her damnedest to summon back her wits and her composure.

"I can see that you find the offer reasonable at least," the client crooned. Smiling, he took an unhurried drink of his wine. "Though, I'm afraid this job will be just a trifle more challenging than the previous one, or the ones antedating it."

Shadya, recovered enough from the shock, tried to smile. "Finally, some challenge, then."

"Oh, indeed. See, the gentleman holding this particular object, while ignorant of its exact monetary value, is not one to treat objects of antiquity superciliously. A collector in his own right, he is not likely to want to part from the target. And yet, I'm afraid he must."

"So . . ."

"So, Miss Shadya, it is simply that you will find this target decently guarded, and are therefore most likely required to apply a more, shall we say, _subterfuge_ approach."

" _You_ will find," Shadya said, groping for nonchalance in the manner of a kit finding her feet for the first time, "that subterfuge just happens to my second nature."

The Bosmer smiled. "I've no doubt it is." He paused for a half dozen heartbeats, then said, "I take it you accept the offer?"

Shadya pretended to think about it. "Yes, I accept."

"Excellent," smiled the Bosmer. He finished his wine.

Shadya, trying to calm her nerves, went for the pitcher and poured herself another glass. She should have taken the Skooma before talking to the man!

A silence descended upon the small table, during which Shadya wondered whether she should ask for the details of the job, or simply wait for the Bosmer to initiate. She usually had little qualms about appearing rude, as she was not paid for her table manners, but then she usually didn't get offered a sum of _eight thousand Septims_ for a simple job, either.

Eight thousand! That would be more than enough, together with her savings so far, so that she could lay low a bit. Now that her family was in Skyrim, and since it appeared quite clear there was not going to be any reconciliation with them, there was nothing holding her here. She could leave, once again start over someplace else. Hell, maybe she would even have gathered enough money so that she could stop thieving; at least for now. Find an honorable trade, even.

An honorable life. What might that be like?

Suddenly, an awful suspicion dawned on Shadya. Could it be a trap of some sort? Perhaps some enemy she didn't even know she had had hired this man; at first he'd gained her trust by administering "jobs" for her, and now the real trap was about to spring. Anyone could have been in on it: Ashni, Ysolda . . . maybe this was all a part of some grand conspiracy against her.

She shot a feverish glance at the Bosmer, who was too busy refilling his plate with grilled leeks and Eider cheese to take notice of the distressful look she was giving him. He looked so unassuming and benign, there just had to be something fishy about him. Maybe he was going to kill her himself, use that dagger she'd retrieved for him! Perhaps the thing was enchanted, and he was planning to steal her very soul! Perhaps that's what this Nightvale person was truly after, his real collection as it were—if indeed he even really existed in the first place. The Bosmer could have made it all up. He might be dangerous. If Shadya acted now, she might be able to escape.

Or perhaps she should act first—bare her claws and strike the man dead before he could do anything.

_That's it! Kill him; let's spill that noble blood all over the table!_

_No!_ With the utmost effort, Shadya managed to rein in her mind before it ran any further. _What's wrong with me?_ she thought with chagrin.

Suddenly it felt as if the light of the room shifted to show her own paranoid thoughts in the correct perspective. Had that truly been her just then? She found that she had to squeeze her hands together under the table, feeling them itch in a most disconcerting manner, thirsting for violence, for blood. Had she really almost done it: attacked the man who'd just offered to buy her out of the miserable state she'd worked herself into?

_What's wrong with me_? she thought again.

Luckily, it seemed as if her inner turmoil went entirely without notice from the Bosmer, who dug into his food with such a content expression on his face, it seemed just a matter of time before he would start humming to himself.

Shadya, trying to steer her attention away from her own tumultuous mind, focused on the amiable Wood Elf instead. Now that she thought of it, there seemed to be something familiar about his features. She'd never dealt much with his kind, and couldn't be sure she'd ever inspected one in such close proximity. A faint recollection popped up to her mind, then. Hadn't she just recently—

The Ohmes! Just last night she'd thought that she'd met a Bosmer, but as it had turned out, the female was in fact a member of her own race instead: a breed of Khajiit now extremely rare outside of Elsweyr, one which wasn't really reminiscent of a feline at all, but rather carried a stark resemblance to the Bosmer. Thus is was very easy to confuse one with—

Another dread suspicion shocked Shadya's body; like an offshoot of the previous one. No, it was impossible!

This time the man's face rose up and his eyes met with Shadya's. Weren't they themselves just a hint feline in their glimmer?

The man frowned. "What is it?"

"Are you sure you're really a Bosmer?"

Shadya wanted to clap a paw in front of her mouth; the question had just slipped out without her intention.

The client's face lit up. "Quite sure! And I do hope you haven't in you possession some irrevocable evidence proving otherwise. Because in that case, I must say that the next family reunion will certainly have an awkward undertone!" He chuckled. "Why do you ask?"

Shadya tried waving the issue away, muttering, "No reason."

If she'd been capable of blushing, this would have been one of those moments. Once more, after the knee jerk emotional reaction had faded, she realized exactly how stupid her paranoid thoughts had been.

"I say! For a second there it looked as if you'd seen a ghost!" The Bosmer narrowed his eyes. "Have you?"

"I don't believe in ghosts," Shadya replied curtly.

"Maybe you ought to. I find it that the dead seldom find it in themselves to refrain from meddling with the affairs of the living."

"Uh, huh."

Another chuckle. "Now, don't look at me like I'm some lunatic! You don't have to take it that literally. In my country, there is a saying, 'the thoughts of the living echo with the voices of the dead'. And you will find that one holds true, whether or not you believe in ghosts."

"I don't know," Shadya mumbled. "Sounds like a whole lot of hooey to me."

At least she felt like her sense of shame was quickly receding. After all: the man had no idea of what had gone on inside her mind.

The Bosmer regarded Shadya for one silent moment, then said, "Having a skeptical mind is by all means a healthy thing. If only one has the sufficient prudence and patience to apply it correctly."

Something about the man's piercing scrutiny made Shadya nervous. She had the unsettling feeling that the man was trying to see right through her. She felt the urge to leave, and to leave _now_.

Shadya cleared her throat. "Alright, I take your word for it. Now, if you don't mind: the details on the job . . . "

"Hmm? Oh!" The Bosmer threw up his hand, drawing an involuntary flinch from Shadya. "Of course, how silly of me! I do you apologize; would you like it be written down?"

"If it please you."

"Splendid!"

And the Bosmer wrote down the instructions, the location of the job, the description of the target, its potential whereabouts, everything. When he was done, he slipped the paper with the details over the table to Shadya. She carefully folded the paper after briefly perusing it, then stuck in her satchel and stood. After the necessary departing words, Shadya marched out of the kitchen, went to Ysolda to give any details the woman might have needed, and then left the Inn.

Once outside, Shadya, instead of walking out through the gate, took a sharp right and walked to the wall. She bared her claws, jumped against the stone and climbed the barrier in the matter of seconds. She had no intention of seeing her family again. She dropped down from the wall and started running toward the east. If she kept a steady pace, she'd get there around sundown.

 


	15. The High Queen

"Really, inspector: it's altogether too rare a privilege to have you with us! The Empire hardly grants us their more esteemed visitations these days. In fact, it has been far too long since the Emperor himself—"

The words of Captain Lylvieve faded into obscurity as Quintus struggled to keep rein of his own faculties. All he could focus on was the jarring way the young officer kept using the humble title _Inspector_ in place of the proper _High Inspector_. It was a fine line that ran between unintentional forgetfulness and purposeful obstinacy masked as such, but it was honestly too onerous a task for Quintus to presently decipher on which side of it the Captain fell.

He squinted against the blaring late morning sun, feeling all too vividly his temples throbbing to the rhythm of his overtaxed heart, and yet still managing to fight the impulse to groan, moan, and sigh the way it would have felt natural for him to do. But that was the way he lived his life, the only way he'd ever known it. After all, was it not the beating down of one's natural instincts and impulses that made for the hard core of proper civilized conduct?

The young fellow, on the other hand, was as perky as a finch, warbling away with a disconcertingly unsoldierly intonation precariously rising and falling like the tides of political loyalties. He'd gotten visibly more comfortable around Quintus and gained a rapid rise in assurance, and was indeed now in danger of altogether slipping out of the dignified manner appropriate for an Imperial officer. Quintus had half a mind to admonish the man for it, but the other half was much too preoccupied with keeping a handle on his own bearings to be able to take the necessary initiative. He could only hope that the man's behavior wasn't any indication of the general state of discipline around here.

Quintus smacked his dry mouth when Lylvieve wasn't looking. He'd forced himself to ingest a quart of water upon waking, but that had done little to ease his thirst. But it would have to wait at least until lunchtime before he could touch the proper drink again, as he would need every bit of his wits about him during the morning's meeting. The one shot of brandy he'd taken just before setting about to leave his room didn't count, of course, as it had served only to soothe the worst of the jitters. Colin had served to help with the rest.

The cobblestone street sloping down from Castle Dour toward the Blue Palace was mostly empty of traffic at this time of day, with just a couple locals walking past, eyeing the passing men with curiosity, and on whom Quintus himself deigned not to waste a single glance. The street lay flanked by the same Nordic styled multistory buildings that cluttered the rest of the city: walls of ashen brick and steep gable roofs with wooden shingles and simply stylized ridges. He found the whole look utterly stuffy: needlessly dark and solemn, with none of the subtlety of the Imperial style. It was simply impossible to imagine anyone walking the wide and airy boulevards of the Imperial City and finding themselves feeling overshadowed and suffocated by the experience the way Quintus presently did. When you strolled thought the Talos Plaza District, no matter how under the weather you might have felt, you would ineluctably end up being refreshed by the experience. The gentle breeze of the Heartlands would wash over you and blow out any remains of gloom and tiredness that might have plagued you.

Here, however, it was the complete opposite. The overbearing darkness, both in the hues of the buildings and in the long shadows they cast around them, was apt to engulf one even deeper into the depths of despair. It certainly did not help that even in this district, where the more affluent housing resided, one felt at constant risk of being mugged or otherwise accosted by riffraff.

The gloomy whole was then crowned by the piercing wind tunneled by the narrow street. And while the western regions of High Rock where Quintus had spent his later life were no strangers to the scourges of sullen architecture and bitter winds, the way this city encased those very things within its claustrophobic embrace was worlds apart from the sense of spaciousness he'd gotten accustomed to. The solitude of the wilderness surrounding his manor had been of a wholly different order: solitude of peace paired with the tranquility of isolation. Here, in contrast, was found only the solitude of spirit.

Ascending the slight acclivity leading to the gates of the Blue Palace did not bring much relief, no matter if it did deliver him from the deeper shades. Yet the building certainly cast a shadow of its own. The palace's exterior was largely of the same murky make as the rest of the city, though obviously much more grandiose, and with the blue roof from which it had gotten its name, which Quintus supposed was supposed to evoke an image of snow-topped mountains.

"Do you think," Quintus said abruptly, cutting off whatever Captain Lylvieve was presently going on about, "I should have brought some present to Her Highness?"

The question wasn't meant to be serious, but, judging by the puzzled expression on the Captain's face, it was plain to see that it went leagues over his head. He probably also failed to catch the subtle but tangible irony in how Quintus had said "Her Highness".

"Uh, sir. I suppose you could have, but I don't think she's expecting—"

Quintus, just barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes, silenced the man with a wave, and walked ahead. "No matter. Shall we?"

The dumbfounded Captain stumbling after Quintus, they crossed the courtyard and entered the palace. Inside, a smaller antechamber led to the large Receiving Hall, which was deluged in daylight flowing through the stained glass windows framing the giant dome looming above. To the left and right, vaulted doorways in two stories opened up to the northwest and southeast wings of the building, and ahead were two sets of winding stairs leading upstairs. Adorned with flower arrangements, the air in the impressive foyer was bathed in the scent of lavender, snowberry, and deathbell, alongside with an undercurrent of pine, which Quintus supposed originated from the cleaning solutions they used. The two men headed straight for the winding stairs, the sounds of their boots falling on the marble tile floor echoing in the silence of the expansive hallway.

As soon as Quintus set foot in the throne room, he felt as if he'd stepped back in time a couple decades. The appearance of the room had hardly changed. The lightly furnished space the size of a living room had been divided in two: the half to his right a waiting area with some chairs and a low table, the left half reserved for the throne in front of which petitioners and guests were received. There was a guard positioned at either side, and in addition to them, only two other people present.

Of those two, the first one that Quintus' eyes went to was living proof of time indeed having passed since his last visit. Falk Firebeard, the steward—still holding on to his life as well as his job, it seemed—standing at the left-hand side of the throne, appeared to have aged half a century in the course of twenty years. Dark circles enfolded his watery eyes, underneath of which hung heavy sacks of skin, and deep ridges ran all across his features, which seemed to have permanently locked into an expression of great strain. He had developed a stooped posture over the years, and though he used no cane, looked like he probably ought to. Overall, his general appearance did not seem to come from age alone; he must have been suffering from an illness of some sort.

_Good Aetherius, man,_ Quintus thought _, why on Nirn don't they put you out of your misery already!_ He greeted the steward with a polite nod, which the man returned, making even that simple motion look arduous.

Quintus found that he had to take a deep breath before shifting his gaze to the other person, the one on the throne. The seat itself appeared to be much grander than it had the last time. As he recalled, the sovereign of the house used to favor a simple wooden throne standing on a low pedestal. Of course, back then she'd been a mere Jarl; now she was the High Queen, and needed to live up to that title. The heavy structure of varnished plywood claimed at least twice the room the old throne had. Three steps led to the seat upholstered with purple velvet, the cushioning extending to the streamlined armrests. A long red carpet ran from the top of the steps to the edge of the room, and on the top of a high backrest balanced a detailed sculpture of a wolf's head, the symbol of Solitude. The same theme was amply present otherwise: a large Solitude banner, a wolf's head on a crimson background, covered the wall behind the throne, and several smaller ones hung all around the rest of the room. But, Quintus noted, the room exhibited no reminder of the Empire of Tamriel.

As for the person on the throne, it had to be admitted that she did do sufficient justice to the grandiose display she sat on. The years, it seemed, had treated the High Queen with a much kinder hand than it had her servant. Elisif the Fair did not in fact look much older than she had the last time Quintus had seen her. Of course, it was presently impossible to fully discern her features, as a thick column of light from a window above shone straight on her, lighting up her slight frame garbed in a simple yet elegant red, white, and gold dress, giving her the appearance of an ethereal being. Quintus had no doubt in his mind that this was precisely the idea.

In her youth, the woman been renowned for her beauty, which, he had to admit, had in fact been remarkable. Back then her figure had been perhaps a little shapelier, the features of her face somewhat rounder and softer, and the cascading mass of hair under her splendid circlet, though even now not showing any signs of gray, used to come with a more vivid copper tone. Quintus thought it might have also been more voluminous. Yet Elisif had definitely retained a lot, if not most, of her outward splendor, as the natural changes of age had not only divested her of the callow charm of youth, but left in its place a deeper, more stable layer of grace attainable only with experience and maturity. Still, nobody in his or her right mind would have supposed this to be a woman in the beginning of her fifth decade. If Quintus had to guess by the woman's appearance alone, he wouldn't have guessed that more than ten years had passed since his last visit. Five, even!

The High Queen's thick hair framed sharp features; large, blue eyes stared with cool but alert composure, and the straight and long line of her nose pointed down to a pair of full lips drawn into a faint, somewhat ironic smile. The light wrinkling around the eyes and the mouth were the one thing to indicate her true age. Her demeanor, on the other hand, was firmly bolstered by confidence impossible for anyone as young as she looked. The way she sat on that tall throne—bathed in golden light, arms gracefully draped over the armrest so that her slender hands as pale as snow hung down as if to exhibit the splendid rubies and amethyst bejeweling them; her right leg resting on the left one, peeking out of her long skirts to show a good deal of ivory skin—was straight out of some painting of an illustrious ancient queen who'd probably never really existed.

In short, the spectacle opening in front of Quintus' eyes was indeed quite fantastical. And he had no reason to assume it wasn't every bit as staged as it looked.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, remaining quiet while taking in the scene, trying to decide on his choice of approach. While he stood there, Captain Lylvieve stepped up between him and the queen and cleared his throat.

"Your Grace," Lylvieve announced in a sonorous baritone, motioning ceremoniously at Quintus. "I give you Quintus Lex, the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculatus, an official representative of His Highness Emperor Attrebus II, the Sovereign Supreme of the Mede Dynasty" He looked at Quintus in turn, dropping down the theatrical aspect of his performance a bit. "Sir, High Queen Elisif the Fair, the Jarl of Solitude and the Governor of Skyrim." He accompanied these latter words with a simple small bow, as if he was afraid to point directly at his liege.

"Thank you, Captain," said Elisif. Her voice was powerful, resonating like the delivery of a trained stage actress. "Dismissed."

The Captain bowed again at the High Queen, then took a few steps to join the guard at the sidelines.

"Captain," the Queen said after a short silence, her tone a strange mix of amusement and impatience. "I believe I said 'dismissed'."

She arched a brow at the man, who returned the look with a dumbfounded frown.

"Your Grace? Uh—"

Elisif lifted her hand to give a small but hard to misinterpret gesture, flicking her fingers at Lylvieve. "Captain, collect your men and leave us. I'm quite assured that I have nothing to fear from the Inspector."

While stifling a wince at the gross misentitlement, Quintus was overtaken by the strange feeling as if he'd experienced this very exact moment before. The Captain, for his part, did not quite look like he knew how to react to this unexpected command. To his credit, though, he had quite quickly recovered enough to bow acquiescence, command the two guards to follow him, and to promptly retreat down the stairs.

Quintus walked onto the soft red rug, taking a few steps toward the High Queen, still plagued by the feeling of familiarity. He pushed the invasive sentiment aside, however, as he needed to focus on searching for the appropriate course of advance. Elisif herself simply remained quiet, her expression and posture unchanged. She was obviously in no hurry. This was her turf, and she was letting Quintus make the first move.

The woman had had something of an innocent streak about her back in the day, as was to be expected from such a young lady. It, however, had already been obvious that it was not the whole story. One had been left with the undefinable yet unshakable feeling that there was more to her than she was letting show through; a wisdom beyond her years, one easy to miss when entranced by her undeniable external beauty. This was a mistake, Quintus thought, men often made: missed even the most obvious of clues hiding behind the sheerest of layers, if only the layer was pleasing enough to the eye, and thus left themselves vulnerable.

But Quintus hadn't missed it. And he wouldn't be fooled.

From whatever well the High Queen might have had drawn her precocious wisdom, by the sheer way the she regarded him with that self-assured little smile of hers, Quintus could sense that she'd not let it dry out over the years. A very cursory glance of his trained eye would have sufficed to tell him that over time she'd found uses for that wisdom, and that that use had sharpened it into a very dangerous edge.

Therefore, he decided to tread lightly.

"I am, honored, Your Grace," he said, not sure if his ironizing of Captain Lylvieve's mode of presentation was too transparent, "by the trust you so magnanimously grant me."

Elisif grunted softly. "Well, Inspector; I can hardly imagine any threat you might possess me."

To Quintus, her words felt like a blow across the face. Never mind that the Queen subtly undermined him as force to be reckoned with, but he wasn't sure if it would be inappropriate for him to reprimand her about the way she repeatedly called him "Inspector". He couldn't decide whether she was doing it on purpose or not, but he had his suspicions.

For the time being, anyway, he swallowed any verbal response and simply gave a little nod of acquiescence. The way Elisif responded to that, the smile on her lips widening a touch, further fueled Quintus' suspicions.

"Be that as it may," he said, "and I do beg your pardon if I cause any offense, as it is in no way my intention. But you seem to contend yourself with a fairly minimal level of personal protection. I cannot conceal my perplexity over this; but then perhaps I am simply accustomed to dealing with the more . . . er, shall we say, _exposed_ , types."

Quintus smiled his most unctuous smile at the High Queen. He'd picked his words carefully, but really wanted to make sure that Elisif knew that he'd meant to say "important" without actually saying it.

"I make due," replied Elisif, shrugging.

"Oh, I don't doubt that." Quintus said. "I admire a woman of austere sensibilities."

Elisif replied by simply smiling quietly. Quintus thought he could see something like a flash of irritation disrupt the placid surface of that deep blue stare. This was, he thought, not a stupid woman. He would be better off holding back some of his sarcasm.

Yet he couldn't stay his tongue altogether. "Now, I once again beg your pardon if I'm out of line, but dare I hope—" He paused, casting about. "—dare I hope it is as it looks, and you've rid yourself of the more . . . unsavory personnel as well?"

Elisif seemed to look past Quintus. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Quintus prepared to clarify his meaning.

"I believe he's referring to me, Highness."

The sudden voice behind his back literally made Quintus jump. He turned around in a flash, staring at the figure that had appeared to come out of nowhere, with his eyes wide with bewilderment. Dressed in cowled robes of midnight blue, the figure's deathly pale countenance was only partly visible underneath, but the expression on the woman's face was one of unequivocal epicaricacy. The way the angular, almost masculine, features were twisted was less of an actual smile, but a gross misrepresentation of one. As if an utterly alien being was doing its best at appearing human—failing in flying colors.

Sybille Stentor, the Court Wizard. Quintus felt his intestines twist themselves in a knot. This here was a reunion he'd anticipated with something less than delight.

"Hello, Quintus," Sybille said. Her manner of speech was slow and deliberate, and her tone devoid of any kind of warmth, human or otherwise. "Has it really been so long? It seems like yesterday we last received you. How time does fly!"

Quintus quickly recovered from the profound fright, and now felt a rush of fury, which caused him to lose hold of his composure. "Bloody Oblivion, woman!" he hissed. "What's wrong with you!"

"Well, it's nice to see you, too."

Quintus felt his cheeks burn angry red. "You scared the living daylights out of me!"

"Really?" Stentor said. "I do tend to have that effect on people."

"Inspector," Elisif interjected with an entertained calm. "I take full responsibility for you getting startled. I regret that I have failed to do as you had wished, and retained the services of my Court Wizard after all." Once Quintus rediscovered the strength to meet the woman's gaze again, he saw an obvious edge to the amusement in her eyes. Her voice, correspondingly, had an icy undertone. "It's almost as if I got to decide for myself whom I do or do not find—as you so put it— _unsavory_."

Swallowing a great deal of both pride and indignation, Quintus gave a humble bow. "Of course," he said. "I apologize for my rudeness."

"Don't apologize to me," Elisif replied. "It's not me whom you slighted."

Quintus regarded Stentor, not even bothering to hide his distaste. The witch, on the other hand, returned his scowl with a gleeful smile. Of all the things that sat wrong with him about the woman, the one giving Quintus the weirdest feeling was her eyes. There was something very odd about them, and it was positively impossible to tell what color they were. Even though just about enough of them showed from under the rim of her cowl, and even though he thought that he registered their color, it still slipped from his mind as soon as he looked away, not leaving any tangible memory behind. They somehow managed to be even more unnatural than the rest of her.

"Oh, don't mention it Quintus," she said. "I'm sure you didn't mean anything by it."

The Court Wizard then turned and walked—or rather _slid_ —over to the other side of the room, taking her place standing beside Falk.

Quintus, gathering his composure, regarded the High Queen, whose mirthful stare he did best to ignore. "Well, in any case," he said, eager to shake the dust of the incident off him, "allow me to congratulate you, Your Highness."

"Congratulate me? On what?"

"I am obviously well aware of the great success you've had governing this land. Why, even in these turbulent times, the Emperor can scarcely say two words about Skyrim adding up to anything short of encomium."

Quintus had, of course, not personally talked with the Emperor for years, so he had no idea what he might have thought about the matter. Bugger all, most likely.

The Queen herself appeared a tad skeptical. "Is that so?"

"Oh, indeed! In fact, I'm told you're the one governor in all of Tamriel that can more or less do what she wants within her jurisdiction."

"Hum," said Elisif. "That's not quite the impression I've gotten."

"Well, of course, the realm must still necessarily guard its interest; so it can't give you completely free hands. " Quintus feigned hesitance, pasting on a concerned frown. "Why, do you have some reason for complaint?"

"There is a certain matter, in fact," the High Queen said with a shrewd smile, "that the Emperor has kept reminding me of over the years. However, we shall get to that later. Do go on."

What, did the bitch want _more_ praise?

"Oh, I've very little to add," Quintus said. "I simply wanted to make known that your gubernatorial success is by no means unknown to me, and also offer my most sincere felicitations."

Sincerity, Quintus had found, was among the very first things within a man's heart to die once he got into politics.

"Well," Elisif said, bowing her head just a touch, "I, for my part, give you in return my most sincere thanks."

Quintus paused for a few heartbeats, his face beaming with the most disingenuous smile. "However . . ." he began.

Elisif didn't look at all surprised, but rather like she'd anticipated a turn of some kind. "Yes?"

"There is just one thing, I'm afraid, that might, er, besmirch your otherwise spotless record."

Elisif considered Quintus with her eyes somewhat narrowed. "Is there, now?"

Quintus bowed his head in mock regret, while carefully arranging the words he was about to say. He instinctively knew that his cautious mode of behavior was the right choice, but he still didn't quite know _why_. After all, why did he, easily the highest-ranking person in the eyes of the Empire to inhabit this room, need to tread cautiously around some simple local governor who seemed to have a way too high opinion of herself and her standing in the great scheme of things? He sensed, however, that there was a reason to play it safe, and try as he might have, he couldn't shake that feeling.

"Well, two, to be perfectly honest," he said. "But the first one—well, it's not too important."

"And yet you're going to tell me anyway."

"There are those who say that you've been—how should I put this?—a bit _harsh_ in dispensing punishments for even the pettiest crimes. Now, don't get me wrong: I personally adore law and order, and don't even strictly object to harsher methods in observing them. But there is . . . ugly talk."

Quintus wasn't being cautious because he was afraid of the woman, he realized. After all, what could _she_ do to harm _him_? No, it was a matter of self-interest, plain and simple. There was something in this for him, he felt sure of it, and he was very eager to find out what it was.

"Another thing," he continued, "the _main_ thing, is that there are others yet that say crime... And that, quite frankly, concerns me a great deal more."

The High Queen could hardly conceal her impatience while Quintus held a deliberate dramatic pause. Her thin eyebrows curved in expectation.

"It is said," said Quintus gravely, "that while you've kept things admirably in line on the surface, _under_ the surface, on the other hand . . ."

"Please, get to the point, why don't you."

Quintus sighed. "Very well; if you insist, your majesty. " He screwed his lips into a regretful smile. "If I'm perfectly blunt, they say that during your reign organized crime has gained alarming prevalence in Skyrim." He paused to allow for a heavy silence during which his words could sink in. "A harsher tongue might even say that you've made the underworld an unofficial subdivision of the governing body."

"Is that so?" Elisif sounded less discomfited than Quintus might have anticipated, and even a little entertained.

"You tell me, Your Highness. I'm but repeating worlds uttered by nasty tongues."

"And are you, by any chance, finished with that?"

Quintus gave an acquiescent bow.

Elisif sat up a bit in her seat. "So I now get to respond to these accusations?"

"Now, 'accusation' is perhaps a bit too severe a—"

The High Queen silenced Quintus with a petulant wave of a pale hand.

"Please, do," Quintus hasted to say. "And let me tell you that I've personally no doubt in my mind you are going to dispel any cloud of doubt whatsoever that might hover over my head."

"Yes, yes; I'm sure."

Elisif grabbed a pitcher off the table next to her throne and poured herself a glass of water. She drank deeply and without haste until finally returning her attention to the Chief Inspector. She nailed him with her sharp eyes, another shrewd smile spread across her fine features

It was Quintus' turn to arch a quizzical eyebrow. "So . . . "

" _So_ , they call me a tyrant do they?"

"I didn't—"

Wave. "Among the first lessons that I got when I first took this throne is that everyone, in general, is a critic."

Quintus nodded. He was the last person to whom that particular fact needed to be divulged.

"And the more vested interest one has in seeing the target of his criticism getting hurt, the more vehement, you will find, his accusations become."

Nod. Another rock-solid point. Quintus could practically see the smarmy faces of his enemies in the Great Council in front of his eyes, and the vision made him grit his teeth.

The High Queen gave a wary sigh, as though she'd already gone over this speech countless times before. "Look: despite what some like to say about me—and I do willingly admit having employed strict measures where I've seen fit—I _am_ fair. The years I spent sitting right here beside High King Torygg—Talos bless his memory—did not go in vain. I observed, and when it came my turn to rule, didn't receive the post without some idea of how to do it. Of course—" She motioned with her hand in the direction of Falk and Stentor. "I was also blessed with very good council."

Her words made Firebeard temporarily straighten up to the best of his ability; though judging by the smug look on the countenance of the ever simpering Court Wizard next to him, it seemed more likely to be her that Elisif's words were referring to.

"I realized from the start," Elisif continued, "that the last thing the people of Skyrim, just beginning to recover from a grueling civil war, needed, and most importantly _wanted_ , was a despotic ruler. The province desperately needed to heal, and one does not nurse fresh wounds by suffocating them. I realized I must work with the people, not against them; talk to them rather than _at_ them."

_Political bunkum!_ Quintus shifted impatiently. "Now, what might that mean in—"

Wave. "And yet—" Elisif switched to a sterner note. "I realized that I couldn't be lax, either. Like newly orphaned children, the people needed clear boundaries. They needed order in their surroundings. Over the long months of the war, they'd grown accustomed to violence, to seeing brother slaying brother over a differing opinion, and that meant they had gotten somewhat desensitized by it. It suddenly seemed less of a wrong to take a life in order to get what you needed. In the worst case, this could lead to rampant growth in violent crime if left unchecked. Therefore, I needed to set examples, to make it clear that the path of lawlessness would lead to nothing but more bloodshed. Sometimes, this meant they needed to see it. Public executions, it turns out, serve to underline that point quite starkly."

"Empathetic rule, public executions." Quintus shrugged enquiringly. "How exactly do those things come together?"

"In order for a house to stand firm, Inspector, the foundation must be sound. Law and order are not two things; law _is_ order. And where order reigns, can the seeds of freedom be planted. As long as there is no confusion about the right and wrong of things, as long as law is enforced and punishments handed out accordingly, there is room for leniency.

"Ultimately, once people have grown out of their more childish impulses, you will find they want nothing better than to be treated as adults. And adults don't need to be told what to do. Once I'd established that there would be zero tolerance for anarchy and disorder, I found it was best to let people govern their own lives; allow the space for them to make their own way—start their own guilds, make arrangements and agreements among themselves rather than be enslaved by rigid external decrees. This I found to be the best mode of governance. 'Hands build a house, but the heart makes a home', as the saying goes. I realized that in order to re-ignite the sense of home in the hearts of my people, I needed to give them free hands to rebuild."

"And thus also ending up giving free hands to the . . . _less desirable_ element?"

Quintus realized he was losing his caution here, but felt that he couldn't hold back any longer. He was at once impressed and infuriated by the paradisiacal picture the High Queen managed to paint of her realm, while at the same time effectively effacing any notion of the serpents lurking in the midst of the placid undergrowth.

Elisif gave an unconcerned shrug. "When you water the flowers, you also water the weeds."

"It is customary to _pull_ the weeds before proceeding."

"Well, I'm no botanist. But I can tell you this much." The High Queen leaned forward, her eyes alight. "My garden, my rules."

She made a fine show, it had to be admitted. But Quintus would not be taunted. "I trust," he said in unconcerned tones, "that I don't need to remind you that it is the Emperor that has bestowed this particular garden upon you. And I've no doubt he would take it away from you as well, should he so choose."

"And who might it be, do you suppose, that he would install in my place as the head gardener? You, perhaps?"

This was rapidly getting out of hand. Elisif stared unflinching and unchallenged down from her sovereign seat, and Quintus simply could not look away without coming out of this appearing to be the weak one. He needed to adjust his course a little, so he molded his expression into a more amicable simper.

"Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we. No one is being replaced."

Elisif replied with a soft, amused grunt. She then leaned back and nodded. "Very well."

Once more, Quintus had to give it to the High Queen. She played her part splendidly, and did a fine job clothing her actions in a veil of benevolence and judiciousness. Quintus could also see that she'd not altogether lost the air of innocence; she could apparently still employ it at will, and use it as a weapon. She'd obviously been taught well, and was doubtless by now a proficient enough orator that she'd have no problem explaining why black was in fact necessarily white.

But Quintus did not care. Benevolent mother of her people; a cruel, tyrannical butcher—it was all just as well with him, as long as the end result was the same. Where the Empire was concerned, only two things were asked of the High Queen. Law and order, that was all. The rest was simply a matter of personal taste.

And where Elisif herself and all this loquacious twaddle so far were considered, Quintus was after only one thing. "I'm not here to dispense criticism about your governance, Your Highness. I apologize if I gave such an impression; it is simply my profession that causes me to get carried away at times. I stand behind my initial statement about the overall success of your reign. The Emperor is content, and consequently _I_ am content."

"And yet?"

"And yet—considering my profession, and most of all my ability to carry it out properly—there is something that greatly perplexes me."

"Don't be shy. I wouldn't want to deny you my help in clearing your head if only I can be of any assistance."

"Another rumor, I'm afraid."

"I'm not afraid of those."

"This, I regret, is a particularly nasty one."

"We're all adults here."

"Very well. They accuse you of, eh, pulling favors."

"What kind of favors?"

"That's just it. The wrong kind. Or rather, for the wrong kind of people."

"This again, Inspector?"

"Yes, I'm afraid we're back to the weeds."

"So, you're saying . . . ?"

Quintus drew a sharp breath. "I should be very disappointed if I found out you were . . . sheltering someone."

" _Sheltering someone_?"

_The Nightingale_ , Quintus thought coldly. _Even if you've been protecting him thus far, you won't be any longer. Not from me._

The Queen, adopting an air of umbrage, sat up straighter in her seat. "What is it, exactly, that you're implying?"

For once and for all, Quintus felt any spirit of pretense leave him. His manner grew chilled, and even the tone of his voice turned flat. "Why am I here?" he said.

Elisif's aspect at once mirrored his. "Certainly took you long enough to get there."

"I believe this game of cat and mouse has continued long enough, don't you agree."

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Inspector."

" _High_ Inspector, your grace. If you please."

"I do beg your pardon. _High_ Inspector." Elisif smiled. "So, just lay it on the line, then. What were you trying to say?"

"I'm here," Quintus said, "because the Emperor insisted on it. And though he may personally not always be a man of the sharpest discretion, it's my understanding he did not issue this assignment lightly."

"Bold words about your Sovereign."

"It takes a bold man to aim for the truth, Your Grace. This is why I'm in the position I am today. Now— to the point, shall we?"

Elisif nodded.

"You have notified the Emperor's office of new and crucial evidence that has recently come up regarding the still unsolved murder of the previous Emperor. Is this correct?"

"Correct."

"Good. Now, as you are well aware, the investigation into that murder ended without result, as I, who at the time was conducting it, simply could not unearth any more evidence, and in effect ended up at an impasse."

"Yes, I remember that."

Quintus grit his teeth as he thought he saw a flash of amusement in the High Queen's eyes.

"Yes, well, anyway. The two words that came up more than any other during my investigation were Dark Brotherhood. It was said to be them behind the deed, so I was obviously very anxious to get to them. And yet, no trace of them was to be found. They had simply seemed to vanish altogether, after their base had been raided by the Empire. And this had happened already after they'd performed their _first_ attempt on the Emperor's life, and that time they'd been outsmarted by the Empire, who used a decoy to get the Brotherhood to walk straight into a trap. And even then, the main perpetrator had managed to slip from their fingers—"

"Please, Chief Inspector. I'm hardly in a need of a history lesson."

Quintus' nostrils flared at the Queen's impertinence, but he kept his cool. "I simply mean to illustrate the elusive nature of the forces we are dealing with here, Your Highness. If you now intend to present me with some sort of clue as to the whereabouts of this nefarious group, you'll excuse me if it makes me bit suspicious. I mean, after all these years . . ."

"You mean to say, have I been protecting them? What possible reason would I have to do that?"

_All out in the open, then?_ Quintus thought. _Well, we'll do it your way._ "I could think of a number of reasons, in fact."

Elisif arched an eyebrow, smiling. "Oh, really? Do tell!"

"If you insist. I didn't want to come to this but—"

Elisif silenced Quintus with her hand, smiling a most unthreatened smile. "Relax, Chief Inspector. I jest. There is no need for this."

"No, Your Highness?"

The High Queen shook her head. "None whatsoever. You see, this new evidence has precious little to do with the Dark Brotherhood."

"Now it was Quintus' turn to cock a brow. "No?"

"Not to my knowledge, no. Though one never knows where a clue ends up leading, am I right?"

Quintus made a conceding gesture, while trying to reorganize his unsettled thought. He could hardly contain his surprise, as he'd been all but absolutely convinced this would be about the Brotherhood. Mixed in with his surprise, however, was a tangible sense of disappointment. If whatever Elisif was about to present as new and important evidence had naught to do with the guild of assassins, could it be possible it would turn out to be inconsequential in the end? So ingrained had the idea of the Brotherhood as the key factor in the murder become in his head over the years, that Quintus found it quite impossible to let it go.

"You seem upset, Chief Inspector."

"Oh, me?" Quintus replied, trying to force his composure back into form. "Oh, no; not at all. Just a bit surprised, I must admit.

"You were expecting news about the Brotherhood?"

"Admittedly, yes."

Elisif paused. "Yes, I can understand your confusion then; perhaps even disappointment. But I'm quite confident that what you are about to learn will not leave you dry in any sense. "

"What do you mean?"

The High Queen tapped at the cushioned armrest with her forefinger. Quintus could read hesitation in those well-defined features.

"Your Highness?"

After a moment longer of hesitation, which Quintus judged real rather than feigned, Elisif continued with a lowered voice, "What I'm about to reveal to you, Chief Inspector, is something hardly anyone outside of this room knows about. Details of some great significance."

Quintus felt curiosity stirring in his chest, pushing aside any vestiges of the let-down he'd experienced just a few seconds earlier. "A _secret_?"

Elisif nodded. "A secret, yes. And not a small one, either. But one that it is crucial for you to learn in order for us to proceed. "

"I'm all ears," Quintus said, trying to hide his agitation by superfluously throwing his arms out wide.

The High Queen smiled. "It is your _eyes_ I'm going to need, first of all."

"You have something to show me, then?"

Elisif nodded, and turned to look to her left.

Sybille Stentor, having stood perfectly still the entire time like some sinister marble statue bolted into place, stirred, and brought to Quintus' mind a gargoyle springing to life.

"Your Highness," the Court Wizard said. "With your permission."

"Granted," Elisif said.

Quintus tore his eyes off the unpleasant witch and looked searchingly at Elisif.

"Follow Sybille, Chief Inspector. She will show you what I mean. Afterwards, come see me again."

Quintus, swallowing the sense of loathing he got from the prospect of following Stentor _anywhere_ , gave a little bow. He then took a quick glance at Falk Firebeard to probe for some reaction. The old man seemed to give a barely perceptive wince, but that might have simply been the doing of his feeble physical state.

The Court Wizard smiled an eerie smile as she sailed past Quintus. "Please, follow."

Quintus gave Elisif one more look, and was replied with a nod.

"Very well," he said. "I will see you again shortly, Your Highness." Then under his breath, added, "I hope."

From her voice, you could hear Sybille Stentor's smile. "Worry not, Quintus," she said. "I'm not going to eat you . . . just yet."

 


	16. The Traveler

The day did not start out well.

Merard was torn from his slumber even earlier than he had planned. What awoke him was the noise from the next room over. Two voices, a hoarse and a shrill one, grunting in broken unison, accompanied by a steady beat of what had to be the headboard of a bed banging against the wall right next to him.

The room was no longer entirely dark, the faint first rays of a gestating sunrise blending with the murk of the night. He judged it to be late enough. After all, he would only waste his time sleeping when fulfilling what had become the sole purpose of his existence was right within his reach.

Before leaving the room, however, he sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, in a place slightly less grubby than the rest. He closed his eyes and disconnected from the coarseness his senses. The noise in the background faded to nothing, and soon all he heard, saw or felt was the radiant inner light that invigorated and sustained him. This was the source of magic, barred from anyone not as deeply committed to the arts as he was. He needed to charge, to become as strong as he possibly could in order to fulfill his duty. Here is where he came to glean the power. He drank his fill, drawing from the boundless light, this foundation of reality itself.

There was but one use he had for it.

He emerged from the sanctum of bliss, not knowing how much time had passed. It did not matter. The room was silent, and outside the sun shone above the horizon. It was time to move on.

Despite the invigorating dip into the Source, however, Merard found that the initial wakening seemed to have left its tainting mark on his mind. When he walked downstairs to fetch some dried meat for his ride, he realized himself to be in a humor most foul. He stepped out of The Bee and Barb into the cold misty streets of Riften. Despite Vekel the Man's urging, he'd realized his body was suffering from tiredness, and thus had needed to rest it before embarking on the journey ahead. Every aspect of the vast web of causality taken into consideration, a moment of indulgence in bodily needs could be crucial later on in realizing a higher goal. He walked briskly through the stained streets of this town of degenerates, marched out through the gate like the integrity of his soul was under threat of being contaminated by the city's decadence. It certainly felt like it was.

Outside the gate, he ran into someone.

A woman.

At once irritated by the sudden obstacle and overcome by a strange perplexity once he took in the sight of the person in his way, for just a few seconds, Merard found himself completely unable to act. Tall, sturdy, armed, and Nordic, there was nothing particularly singular about the woman, but the strangest feeling of familiarity took him in its grip as he looked in her eyes of deepest blue. The fire burning in them, the determination and resolve, frightened him. And he no longer feared anything. This, in turn, threatened to make him angry.

"Watch where you're going, woman!" he snapped. But there was a disconnect between his mouth and his mind. It was simple automated response appropriate for the situation with no true emotional correspondence.

And when the woman gave her reply—nothing pertaining to conciliatory, judging by the look on her face—all Merard heard was meaningless noise. Her lips were moving, but whatever she might have said signified absolutely nothing to him. His eyes remained fixed on the female. Where did he know her? _Did_ he know her? Or was it that he was _going_ to?

_What?_

Deeply disconcerted by the way this unexpected situation was twisting his mind toward the irrational, Merard finally managed break away from the pull of the woman's gaze. He hissed in frustration, went for his horse stabled by the gate, mounted it. Within seconds, he'd galloped away, heading out west. Soon the encounter had entirely faded from his memory.

His mood, however, was now even worse.

He needed to focus, needed to remind himself of what was at stake. He'd come this close, now all that remained was to keep himself together for the time remaining. What did it mean that he would finally realize his goal? Get his revenge? How long had it been the solitary purpose of his entire existence? It scared him at the same time as it invigorated him, the thought of the approaching atonement. What would happen afterwards? Might he simply cease to exist?

_Irrelevant!_

But would he do it right away? The moment he faced the hated countenance from his most hounding dreams, the dreaded features his physical eyes had never had contact with—Merard would know him, no doubt—would he manage to control himself? Would he be able to hold himself back long enough to get his chance, have patience to wait for the right moment?

_Yes!_

He covered ground swiftly, spurring his horse on into a fierce gallop once it had warmed up.  
The steed was reliable and strong, but he was harried by a minor concern that it wouldn't endure at the speed with which he needed to travel, even with the magical surges of health and stamina he would feed it. And yet, he couldn't slow down, either. There were dark recesses in his mind that still had it in for him; if he tarried, they might get their way. The future—or the _end_ —awaited ahead, and as eagerly as Merard was rushing towards it, with equal passion he ran away from the past. Only by fulfilling his mission could he bring those two together. The humiliations, the injustices of the past, they demanded expiation in the future. The sufferings of a whole family, the sins of the father visited upon the son a hundredfold, all could be swept away with a single stroke.

Perhaps then he would simply escape into the light, merge into the Source and disappear. Perhaps ceasing to exist altogether would prove to be the highest bliss.

_Not yet!_

His mind continually attempting to run away with him, Merard had to focus on the present, no matter how dissatisfactory it was. He directed his attention to the basest function of his body, let his attention anchor itself onto his breath, yet not following its path into the sacred Sanctum as he normally would. He stayed in the world of senses but disallowed his mental functions to continue operating. For the time being, they had served their purpose.

And yet: the thought of the inevitable moment, the time to act, kept forcing itself to the surface of his mind, would not leave him be. What would he actually do when the moment arrived? He had, of course, mulled the deed over and over again in his mind over these long years, but had never actually planned it.

But what he did know was that he was ready. He'd trained hard, become as strong a mage as he possibly could, stronger than nearly anyone. Strong enough, at least, to take on the most powerful criminal in the world and whatever the man could throw at him. He knew his magic to be powerful, surpassed perhaps only by daedric magic. But Daedra magic irrevocably corrupted the soul of its user, being too potent for the mortal mind, with only a few notable exceptions known of those who'd dabbled with it and come out mostly uncorrupt.

Not that he had too much concern for his soul, but he needed it to aid this body to do what it must, and he would do nothing to risk failure.

Do it, to do it; yes, yes! But _how_?

_The breath, the breath!_

In this way, his mind constantly prodding and pulling while his body strained against the muscular body of his mount—against the violent jouncing of the animal negotiating the rises and falls of the twisty, winding mountain-trails—he put behind him a fleeting mile after another. The snorts and grunts of the horse and the wind howling in his ears competed with the whirling of his brain, which he always managed to bring back under his rein, but which nonetheless struggled to run its own course. The rapidly passing scenery hardly registered with him at all, though it had been a long time, anyway, since he'd taken much interest in his surroundings, unless there was something pertinent there he needed to take into consideration.

Then, after a good stretch of back and tail breaking riding—the sun had yet to climb to the crest of the heavens, so it couldn't have been too many hours—some quarter-hour after he'd entered the narrow, sloping pass slithering between the smaller mountains south of the Throat of the World, Merard, who'd given his steed the mercy of slowing down to a temperate canter for a minute, got the feeling as though he was being followed. And not long after, he heard sounds from the road behind him.

He didn't turn to look at first, for there was a chance it was just another traveler, like the many he'd passed so far; but something in his gut gave a warning, and his gut was rarely wrong. Merard took his speed down a notch or two, clenched his jaw, flexed his muscles almost unconsciously, and braced himself. The thumping of hooves on turf and the jingle of stirrups and bridle were rapidly gaining on him.

If it were bandits approaching, their lawless careers would soon come to a swift, screaming end.

But there was only one horse, Merard realized after a dozen or so hoof beats. Bandits rarely rode alone. Still, his gut kept on alerting. Stiffening in his saddle, he rapidly sifted through the list of Destruction spells in his disposal, tossing a mental coin between the categories of ice and fire. He nearly settled upon Fire Storm, then, realizing that he'd wind up hurting his horse along with the potential foe, decided on simple Fireball. That would get the job done just fine, should this come down to a violent confrontation.

The other rider was nearly abreast with him. Merard's lips were moving as he mechanically repeated the verbal form of the incantation, though he was obviously far beyond the need for such neophytic measures. It was like a mantra to calm his nerves with more than anything.

His fists bunched around the reins as the thumping drew near. Almost there. Just few seconds now…

"Greetings, fellow traveler!"

Merard nearly jumped on his saddle, so tightly had his nerves wound. His head snapped to the left to face the source of the jolly salutation. Another uncontrolled reaction then nearly escaped him: sudden widening of eyes, caused by surprise over the vision that had appeared by his side. Must have simply been his waiting for someone threatening to invite such an emotional response, he decided. Immediately after recovering, his facial features settled on a guarded frown. To anyone observing, the infinitesimal moment of uncertainty would have passed in such a flash as to not allow their brains to even register it.

The arrival, it turned out, was just a boy. Riding on a paltry Imperial rouncey, the tall and very lean lad's gaze boldly fixed on the cold-blooded murderer on the verge of spewing scorching death on him, and whom he must have taken for just another innocuous wayfarer. There was a frisky gleam to the emerald eyes looking out from the midst of his pointed, narrow, and rather pale features. A raven mop resembling a freshly abandoned bird's nest roosted atop his smooth high forehead, the sharply articulating eyebrows of the same hue drawing the demarcation between his mane and the attentively twinkling eyes. A faint wisp of mustache smeared the gap between a precipitous nose and full lips, and despite his already firm and manly jawline, some childish roundness still marked the region below the high cheekbones. Dressed in a black laced leather doublet and tight breeches to match—both clearly pronouncing his gangly form—the youth wore no armor.

He must not have been much older than fifteen, Merard judged, so seeing him travel alone in the wilderness with no protective layer on him, or, as far as could be discerned, any weapon, was undeniably a curious thing. Peasants were forced to take risks, traveling by themselves unless they were lucky enough to afford an escort; but this kid in his spotless attire and his washed aspect definitely reeked of privilege rather than dung, disregarding that miserable nag he rode. In the crammed space, he was close enough for Merard to catch his scent in which leather mixed with flowers—lavender, snowberry, deathbell . . .

All in all, Merard simply didn't know what to make of him. He kept his silence, eyeing the boy with the sort of reticence you'd expect from a wary traveler not looking to be bothered.

The youth, beaming, took a deep breath, huffing out a cloud of vapor. He looked about him. "A nice day for it, wouldn't you say?"

It was damned cold here in the pass, dry snow clinging tenaciously to the mountainsides. An increasing amount of territory was claimed by the frost as the path veered higher, the breath of the wind turning progressively more chilling. And as the ridges grew higher and sharper around them, so fell the light of the sun further from sight, and the more hungrily did the mists swirling high atop their heads devour what rays the steeply rising cragged stone walls might have else permitted. The lone tufts of grass and the lean fir trees with their tough, withered exteriors were dusted with white powder, and the higher the path snaked, the less green things got.

Merard, without taking his eyes off the kid, grunted, "If you say so."

"Oh, yes sir, I do!" said the boy. "Just about a perfect day for a little adventure, no?"

Silence.

The lad seemed to pay no mind to Merard's less-than-subtle indications to stop talking. He took another big theatrical gulp of air, letting it out with an equally hammy half-exhale, half-growl sound. "Ah, I like the sound of that: a day full of manly business, and, at the end, the warmth of a lovely lady." He slanted a smirk at Merard, winking an eye. "Or two."

Merard still simply stared at him. Was this whelp maybe a little soft in the head? Or was he perhaps just trying to take the piss out of him? Needing to figure the correct answer out quickly before he could do anything, he needed to pin this little twerp down in order to pick the right approach, the correct mask to put forth. Or else things might get ugly.

"So," the boy chirped, blissfully unaware of the imminent danger, "where you headed?"

Merard's eyes narrowed. "What's it to you?"

Brusqueness would work just fine.

"Ho," said the boy, "a little grouchy, are we? Well that's fine, that's fine! You don't need to tell me if it's that sensitive. Just making conversation here."

"Do I look like I'm just dying for a tête-à-tête just now?"

Merard's reply, presented with impeccable rough country machismo, seemed to slip right past the boy. The kid simply looked on, the sort of cock-sure grin only the youthful sense of invulnerability could engender on his broad lips. "Me, I haven't decided just yet. But the possibilities, they sure are enticing!"

If Merard acted quickly, he could simply take the irksome pup out with a quick toss of the arm. No witnesses, no troubles. He could already feel the flame travel down his arm.

"Maybe I'll go check out Helgen," the boy said then. "Hear it's home to some notorious thugs with big old prices on their heads." He turned to look at Merard, gave a somehow knowing, lopsided leer. "Ever been down there?"

Upon hearing the name mentioned, Merard's heart skipped a beat. His skin felt as though pricked with a thousand freezing needles. _Do not let anyone follow you_ , Vekel the Man said. The instructions were unequivocal. If this kid was being serious, Merard _would_ have to kill him. There was no alternative.

Nothing of this bled through, however, as confirmed by the unflinching simper on the young man's countenance. He didn't have the faintest idea that his days may just be numbered in the minutest of decimals, clueless about the good chance he was looking his killer in the eye.

And yet, there was something else here that confounded Merard. Something about the tone of the kid's voice, that sly look on his face. It was as if he _knew_ where Merard was going, like he was only testing him. A suspicion flared up. Maybe _they_ had sent the kid; perhaps this was a set-up. That would explain a lot. Were they testing if Merard would be committed enough to kill a defenseless kid if he needed to? Or was the whelp here only to supervise? But if that was the case, certainly they would have been more surreptitious about it?

The whole thing stank. Did they want Merard to try to attack the child or not? Perhaps he was not as defenseless as he seemed. Yet, scanning him, Merard didn't detect any magic about him. In fact, the boy's signature was rather curious: mute somehow, but not in the usual way of a person untrained in the arts, or in the flat-line of a Dull. Rather, it was as if a part of him was barred from Merard's sight, as if a proportion of the boy's soul was shrouded in darkness. But it didn't seem to emanate from himself; it was as though someone was affecting him from the outside, himself not necessarily even aware of it. That was certainly suspicious, and enforced the idea in Merard's mind that the Nightingale's crew was somehow behind this.

Merard decided to do nothing as of yet, but kept the flame at the ready, the heat at recess right above the wrist.

The boy, breaking his long probing stare, then snorted, facing forwards. "Nah! I'm only joking, of course. I may be brash but I'm not entirely off my rocker! They'd have my hide for shoe leather if I showed my face there." He chuckled to himself, seeming tickled by the image.

Merard, mildly relieved, faced ahead also and said nothing.

"No," the boy continued, blissfully ignorant, it seemed, once again of the brink he kept dancing on. "My ma', she'd no doubt follow me to the afterlife if I pulled something like that, just so she could whoop my behind! Guess I've owed the old lady that much, to at least try to stay alive until my seventeenth birthday." He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Mother, though by means a dainty damsel, she worries, even if she hides it under her cool disdain. Always on my case, though. Guess that's mother's love for ya." He cocked a brow at Merard. "I'm sure you know what I speak of."

Merard had no idea. He'd never had a mother, and with the grandparents that had for the most part raised him, the closest thing to love was getting thrashed for making a mistake. He was destined to become an Emperor one day, they'd say, and emperors couldn't afford to screw up. Then, a couple years after their family's humiliating eviction from Cyrodiil to High Rock, after his grandparents had gone to their well-deserved graves, it had been off to the orphanage with him. Things had been pretty much the same there, except that no one ever said anything about any emperors. But getting beaten was just the same; it mattered little whether it came from the hands of his grandparents, the superiors of the orphanage, or his peers.

Of course, by that point he had gotten used to the feeling, learned in his way to appreciate the rich texture in the sensation of pain. Come to expect it, even miss it when it wasn't there. The closest thing to love. After a point he had started to search it out, broken the rules on purpose or deliberately agitated the other kids to evoke their ire. Compared with the suffocating gray monotony of the everyday, the bleakness of one day following another in uniform succession, the sensation of hurt became the most welcome respite. Something else to break the routine. Something strong enough to—

_You'd better focus, boy!_

Merard shuddered at the abrupt, scolding voice in his head. Even after all these years, it still had the power to unsettle him.

This time he was not able to conceal the movement of his mind. The boy frowned at him. "Is something the matter?"

Merard assumed the tough exterior in a heartbeat, shook his head. "You just worry about yourself, now, son."

The boy gave an amused grunt. "Y'know, if I had a father, I bet he'd sound just like you!"

Merard made no reply.

"Yeah," the kid drawled, lifting his head and simpering at the gray skies. "No, maybe I'll just head toward the Reach. Go take a look at those Forsworn. I've never seen me one of them Hagravens before; hear they're quite the sight." He grinned widely at Merard. "Not to mention, I keep hearing lots of praise for the Forsworn womenfolk. Enticingly scant clothing and all that. Unbridled and rowdy. Word is they's the real reason they call them folk wild!"

Merard said nothing. He was back to reconsidering killing the kid. It was impossible to decide which was more irritating: the way everything about the runt screamed "rich and spoiled" or the pathetic way he tried to hide this by adopting a more down-to-earth manner.

"So," the whelp said after a moment's silence. "Where would you suggest I go?"

Merard gave the kid a level eyeful of composed contempt. "I'd just head on right back home, were I you. Back to your mother's skirts."

The youth snorted. "Oh, I think the queue to my mother's skirts may just be a tad too long these days for me to get in line!"

Merard's reply was just to continue staring.

"Well," the boy finally said. "I get the distinct feeling you're not looking for company just now."

"How on Nirn did you gather that," Merard muttered, swinging his attention to the road winding higher up the mountainside.

"That's alright, I don't mean to be a nuisance."

Merard damn near snorted at that.

The boy gave him one more smile, raising his reins to snap them. "So, mayhap I'll still see you 'round. Happy travels!" Without waiting in vain for a reciprocation, he brought the leather straps down on the animal's back and dug the spurs into its rawboned flanks, letting out an ostentatious "Hiya!" Then, with a surprising alacrity, the horse bolted up the steeply rising narrow path. In less than thirty seconds, the kid was out of sight.

Merard closed his eyes and let a slow and deep breath escape from between pursed lips. After a few moments, he allowed for the magic welled up his arm to recede back to its unfathomable foundation. After a few moments longer, he allowed himself to feel something akin to relief. The road veered on, the wind whipping ever colder and sharper between the crags as he ascended, gusts throwing up puffs of white dust around the hooves of the snorting, fidgeting horse who seemed to have caught a strain of its master's tension. He urged the beast to a brisk trot, then up to a gallop.

Despite the bitterness of the frigid air, the Breton avenger, ostensibly a thief, felt nothing of it. It was colder inside him. Oddly, the icy hatred gripping his heart was now contending with a rivalling affect most unwelcome: fear. There was no home there for the latter, so with the power of the more potent emotion native to that barren land, he crushed it down.

Narrowing his eyes on the road ahead of him, he bit down on his teeth, clearing once and for all his mind of all interrupting commotion. He'd not come this far to falter now. It was his fate to come apart, he knew, but not now. Not here.

Not before the voices in his head were silenced.

Ahead was the road; nothing but the road.

_Worry not, father. I'm focused!_

 


	17. The Secret

Quintus' gait was marked with involuntary apprehension as he walked after the eerie woman. The Court Wizard herself positively glided across the polished marble floor, her footsteps on the mirror sheen surface nearly entirely soundless.

"Right this way, if you please," she said.

Remaining upstairs, she led the Chief Inspector towards the west end of the northwestern wing. Finally they came to a stop in front of double doors. Stentor gave Quintus a quick look, as if she were about to say something, but appeared to think better of it, and simply threw the doors open. Quintus followed her into the room with minimal furnishing, the most dominant of which was the large four poster double bed sitting at the western wall.

Stentor stopped at the foot of the bed. "Here we are."

Quintus shrugged his shoulders. "It's a bedroom."

"Indeed it is," Sybille said, then, as if feeling the need to specify, added, "It's not mine."

"Aha," Quintus relied with a stiff little smile. "There go my hopes."

"It belongs to the High Queen."

"And there they are: reignited!"

"Over here." Sybille said, spinning to her left.

As she swept past Quintus, he noted that she had the most curious scent: as if someone had tried to cover up the smell of a cadaver's initial stages of decomposition with a perfume made out of freshly deceased roses. He followed the witch to the corner of the room where the woman halted by a large oaken dresser.

"So," Quintus said. "Are we about to play dress-up? Because I have to warn you in advance that you'll find the sight of me in a ball gown most offensive." He was loathe to keep making such puerile remarks, but the woman's company was making him so uncharacteristically uneasy that he was desperate to cover it up in any which way he could.

Stentor, however, did not seem to pay attention to his quips. Without a word, she pulled open one of the doors and showed her arm into the midst of the articles of feminine royal garb hanging there. She gave Quintus another inscrutable look, and then there was a clicking sound from within the cupboard. A second later there was another sound: a rumble originating from the end wall. First some cracks appeared in it, then a panel the size of a door pulled back and slid aside, revealing behind it a gaping dark maw. A chill gust smelling of damp stone drifted into the bedroom.

Quintus regarded the newly appeared passage in silence for a second, then smacked his mouth. "Well, then; what have we here?"

"Please," Sybille said without further explanations. "Follow me." She took a torch, lit it, and walked through the passage. "And do be careful—the steps are rather steep, and the ceiling quite low."

Quintus ducked after the robed woman into the dank passageway. The air in there was stale and cold, and it took a great deal of willpower not to hug himself to warm up. It soon turned out that Stentor had not been kidding about the stairs: they were very small, as if made for little people, and descended at an ankle-twist gradient.

"This is an escape route," Quintus said, while doing his best to focus on not losing his footing on the steps slippery with mildew. The sound of his voice seemed to come from the bottom of a deep well.

"You've got it," replied Stentor. "Meant, obviously, for the ruler of the palace, who without exception is the person inhabiting the master bedroom."

"So . . . we're eloping, or what?"

Stentor, once more disregarding Quintus' remark, continued, "The passage is ancient. Discovered in the ruins of the burnt-down old palace, it's likely been in place from the city's very inception."

"I see."

Quintus had no idea why he was there, or why he needed to hear these details. Each careful step he took leading deeper into this deep, stuffy abyss was leaving him with an increased sense of anxiety. A man used to controlling his immediate surroundings, and, consequently, his own inner and outer composure, being towed deeper and deeper into the stifling darkness left him with the double chagrin of not only losing his handle on the situation, but command over his own faculties as well. And the residue of the drink still tenderizing his flesh and spirit seemed to further shove him toward the edge of his sanity.

In trying to keep his nerves from fluttering, he forced his breath to a slow and regular pace, while repeatedly opening and closing his clammy palms. He needed to keep reminding himself of how unlikely it was that the Court Wizard had some nefarious plan for him. After all, it would have been utterly pointless to bring him all the way here simply to do him harm. Surely?

Then, while Quintus was rapidly losing confidence in his own powers of reassurance, Stentor came to an abrupt stop. Quintus nearly lost his footing in an attempt to not run into her. The Court Wizard turned slowly to face the Chief Inspector. The pallid, gaunt features, partly overshadowed by the dark cowl, illuminated in the fluttering golden glow of the torch; those gleaming, ambivalently colored eyes staring from deep within the shroud; the arch of her lips as she revealed a row of immaculate, white teeth, felt in the oppressive gloom of the claustrophobic space as if they were draining any measure of courage and self-composition that might have been left in Quintus. In the dark, she was like a spider in her own mesh, and he, it felt, was the unfortunate entrapped fly.

Quintus decided to be the first to break the strangling silence. "Yes?" he wheezed.

"We are there."

Quintus couldn't keep himself from swallowing what little moisture was left on his parched tongue. As far as he could tell, there was nothing where they now stood that in any way deviated from the scene so far: only the black passageway constricting the very air around them. In such closed space, even a single thought could not escape unnoticed. Despite the cold, he felt beads of sweat start to gather at his hairline. Was this where he would meet his doom?

Sybille, as if wanting to prolong the torturous moment a while longer, said nothing at first, the ghastly grin being the only living thing on her face. Whatever kept those eyes alit, it seemed, was as dead as the people who'd built this asphyxiating corridor of horrors.

Then, right when Quintus felt his last surplus of courage running dry, Stentor swept the torch past his face. He shied back, swaying and only barely keeping from falling on his rear. The light left him partially blinded for a split second, and once he could again discern the form of the Court Wizard, he found the woman facing the damp granite wall to their left.

Heart beating feverishly in his chest, Quintus was about to inquire of the woman what exactly it was that she was doing, when she reached up her hand and grabbed ahold of an empty candlestick mounted on the wall. The words dying on his lips, Quintus watched in fascination as the woman tugged on the candlestick, which pulled back like a switch. The next moment, a similar thing happened to what had transpired in the High Queen's bedchamber: a panel appeared in the sheer stone, then moved aside to reveal another passage: a shorter, broader stairway, this one illuminated with torches lining the walls on each side.

At this, Quintus felt the sense of helpless horror that had been squeezing his breast give increasing way to intrigue. "What's this, then?"

There was a somewhat sardonic gleam to Stentor's scrutiny. "Nothing dangerous." She jerked her head toward the stairway. "After you."

Quintus hesitated for a split second, but then, reassembling all the mislaid dignity that he possibly could, stepped into the opening with his head held high. He managed to push away the uncertainty that had been haunting his steps, and forced his feet to descend these new, wider stairs with as much certainly as if he were entering just another palatial antechamber. Yet, by the loose gravel crunching under his boot and the rapidly increasing malodor invading his nose, Quintus could tell for sure that this was indeed not just another anteroom. He was entering some clandestine rat-hole, one sure to hold a surprise sufficiently baleful to justify all the cagey skulking about in ancient extrication routes.

And as soon as he came to the last two steps, he realized exactly what kind of place it was. In front of him opened a hallway flanked by rows of iron bars, the barred area divided into four individual cells on both sides. At the back of the row, roughly twenty paces long, was a slightly larger opening, a rack sitting against the end wall there. Chandeliers of goat horn sconces hanging off the ceiling brought about a dim, somewhat sickly light. The place was ripe with the pong of stale sweat and grime and, frankly, piss and shit.

Quintus stopped and turned to the Court Wizard. "A dungeon."

"Perceptive," said Stentor. "That is indeed what it what it is. Most likely a somewhat newer addition to the evacuation tunnel, though certainly itself very old. Used at least by Pelagius the Mad and, before him, The Wolf Queen Potema for containing their personal enemies, its building may go as far back as the reign of Wulfharth the Underking **."**

"And how do you know all this?"

"I have my sources."

Quintus regarded the smugly simpering sorceress with what he took as renewed judgment. It suddenly felt as though a powerful enchantment had kept him in its thrall without him even noticing, and was now subsiding. He no longer quite felt as if he'd stepped out of reality and into some dark dream realm in which this horrid witch reigned as the sovereign. She in fact appeared much less ghastly in the relative brightness of the dungeon. Quintus realized, or at least seemed to, that it had simply been the darkness playing tricks on his mind. To be sure, the bizarre female's aspect was every bit as repugnant to him as it ever had been, but she did not appear quite like the abhorrent queen of the underworld as she had in the constricting gloom.

Still, he could have thought up a number of places he'd rather have been just then.

Stentor motioned her hand toward the end of the passage. "Over here."

Taking special care to breathe through his mouth, Quintus followed her further into the dungeon. Among the empty cells, which indeed showed no sign of having contained any prisoners for quite some time, it seemed that one did hold a living creature in it. In the last cell to the right, a ragged form of something like a human had been draped across the wall. The putrid stench that filled the entire dungeon obviously found its source here.

As they stopped at the door of the cell, Quintus wrinkled his nose. "Gods, the smell!"

"I'm afraid the hygienic properties of this place are strictly limited." Stentor herself seemed to be immune to the offensive fetor.

With mixed revulsion and fascination, Quintus studied the wretched form haunting the cell. Dressed in utterly tattered rags, as if having been detained in the dungeon from its very gestation, the creature barely recognizable as man appeared at first to be nothing but a mass of entangled hair, his long locks and beard obscuring any facial features underneath them. The prisoner's extraordinarily skeletal arms stuck out from underneath the frayed sleeves as they were stretched out above the shaggy head. His wiry wrists were attached to fetters mounted onto the wall, and beneath the caved-in sack of skin and bone, his ankles were similarly fastened. The creature's legs were a tangle of emaciated, blotchy grizzle that scarcely seemed to add support to the suspended threadbare arms sustaining his meager weight.

Despite his long years of induration, Quintus found himself quite aghast at this spectacle. He could not for a moment think of a single thing to say.

Stentor tapped the bars with her knuckle, and a vibrating metallic peal made the whole dungeon echo. "Wake up! We've got a visitor."

The tiniest of movements stirred the sagging husk, and the low sound, like a growl, emanating from it seemed to crawl right up Quintus' spine. He felt the hair on his head stand on end.

"That's right, dear," said Stentor in her dreadful insouciance, "time to rouse a bit. Let's not be rude, now."

At first, it appeared as if the Court Wizard's words had had no effect. But then, very slowly, the contorted figure came to life. As Quintus watched with mounting revulsion, the prisoner strenuously lifted his head. The matted ashen mane slid aside to reveal a pair of gray eyes, the gaze of which was, if possible, even more baleful to witness than the rest of him. Though it wasn't so much because of the infinite suffering or even the indisputable, and quite understandable, madness in them; rather, it was the disconcerting strength, even to the point of lucidity, shining baldly in that unflinching stare, so completely at odds with the mangled flesh which it inhabited, that seemed to shake the foundations of Quintus' soul.

For what felt like a long moment, the impassive eyes lingered on the baffled Chief Inspector, who strenuously battled the temptation to turn his eyes away from the gaze, so commanding despite its apparent lack of emotion. Finally, the eyes slid from him to Stentor, stayed on her for just a second, and then dropped and fell back to the floor. Quintus was suddenly struck with the most out of place sensation: as though he and the Court Wizard were visitors to a king in his chambers, one who deigned not to spare a word to visitors so obviously beneath him.

"Now, now: that's no way to welcome a guest," chided Stentor. "Tsk, tsk, I say."

Precipitously repulsed, Quintus turned his head away. His eyes went to the back of the hallway, where stood the rack, its wooden surface marked with indentations and spatters of dried blood. To the right of the contraption was a cold brazier, rods of iron sticking out in the middle of the black coals. On the other side there was a table with various torture implements: knives, hooks, pliers, and the like. None of them looked unused.

Quintus turned back to the distasteful scene in front of him. He could not decide which disgusted him most: the mangled form of human refuse on the wall, or the most malapropos blitheness of Stentor's manner of conduct. Whatever it was, his earlier terror caused by the woman had entirely abated, its place taken by the most profound repugnance for the nasty witch.

He didn't feel like pussyfooting any longer, so he turned sharply to face Stentor. "What is this?" he demanded.

Sybille's mien was as blasé as ever. "This? This is exactly what you've been looking for."

Quintus, not able to look at her gruesome arrogance very long, switched once more to regard the wreck in flesh, who seemed to have gone back to his state of cadaverous dormancy. "Somehow I find that really difficult to imagine," he muttered.

"Ah," Stentor exhaled, "imagination, my dear Quintus, is of the absolute essence here!"

Quintus frowned. "What are you on about now?"

"To imagine that which you want, to focus it into such sharpness that you can shape the very reality itself. Now, is that not the essence of not only magic, but of life as a whole? Isn't that how we truly control our destinies? Is that not why you and I are now here?"

Quintus stared at the woman blankly for a few moments. "I refer to my previous question."

Stentor went on, as if Quintus had never spoken. "Yes, that is precisely it! It's simply the matter of setting your intentions straight, focusing your desires and your will, and you will find that the universe will prescribe you precisely what you ask for. No: what you _demand_ of it! _As you will it, so it shall be!_ "

Realizing fully that they were getting far from the more pertinent matter in front of them, yet feeling himself so piqued that he simply did not care, Quintus, again in full possession of his natural sense of superiority, straightened himself to his full height and made his voice as coolly disdainful as he could. "That, my lady, may just be the single most preposterous notion I've been introduced to in my _entire_ life."

And that, as the expression went, was saying something.

"Oh?" replied Sybille imperturbably. "And what do you propose, Inspector, is the true way in which reality operates?"

"Chief inspector," Quintus corrected. "And it's quite simple, really: cause and effect. You make whatever move you desire to make, and the universe complies according to the very basic laws on which it is based. And those laws, _you will find_ , are as unyielding as they are immutable."

"And how is that different from the idea which I just asserted?"

"The universe is no wishing well!" Quintus scoffed. "You may perform an action, but no matter how sincere or determined your intentions may be, you can in no way affect the outcome with your will. Simply the laws of causality will determine the end result of any given action. Even a fool could tell you as much!"

Sybille shrugged. "And who says intention can't have its part to play in all this? Besides, if this is true, how do you explain the existence of magic?"

Quintus became acutely aware that, while he and the Court Wizard were having their exchange, the prisoner had lifted his head and was studying them. There was an ample expanse of contempt within the impassive stare, and the Inspector felt steadily increasing unease under the inconspicuously scathing scrutiny. To obscure his discomfiture, then, he attenuated his manner, giving Stentor his best conciliatory simper. He was, however, careful to do this in a way as if _he_ were the one to grant clemency to _her_.

"Are we truly having a debate of ontological nature—here, in this abominable stench, with this wreck of humanity hanging in the background? I'd say there are more pressing questions at hand, wouldn't you agree?"

Stentor shrugged again. "I see all questions interrelating one way or another, in the end. But I do get your point." She switched to addressing the ruin haunting the cell. "Are we boring you, my dear?"

Thoroughly unimpressed, the prisoner's eyes once again dropped.

Stentor turned to Quintus. "Let us step closer, shall we?" She produced a key out of the pocket of her robe, fitted it into the lock in the cell's door. Once the door opened with a spine-tickling screech, Sybille motioned with her hand. "After you."

Quintus hesitated.

"I assure you he's quite harmless as he is."

Cursing inside that he gave the witch any sign of weakness, Quintus straightened himself and stepped in. He pressed the back of his hand theatrically against his nose, so as to indicate that the stench was the cause of his apprehension.

For one reason or another, Stentor closed the door after her. "Ah, this is much better, don't you think?"

It was, in fact, far from that. Up close, that abominable reek was even worse, and seeing the human wreckage from such an immediate distance shed further light on how bad, exactly, his physical condition was. What skin you could see from underneath his rags was marked either by scar tissue or some kind of hideous, sloughing rash. The way the sallow, abraded skin closed in around his bones was as if it in itself were some strange, strangling parasite, the true cause of his atrophied muscles.

"Is this how you keep him?" Quintus asked, if only to give his mouth something to do besides retching.

"No," Stentor said, "we have prepared him for your visit. Not that he's any danger, mind you, but still."

Whoever the prisoner was, or had been, it truly did not come across as if he'd be able to threaten a fly, were he unfettered. Still, something in the creature's eyes made Quintus feel glad the restraints were in place.

"Who is he?"

Stentor's face lit up, as if she'd been expecting that question to arise the whole time. She turned to the prisoner. "Well: are you going to introduce yourself, dear?"

There was no reply, nor any movement, yet Quintus couldn't have said for sure if he didn't hear the man scoffing.

"Fine," said Stentor after a few seconds of silence. "I shall have to take the honor upon myself." Her eyes still on the immobile shell of man, she gestured at Quintus. "We are today graced by the visit of Quintus Lex, the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculatus." Then the uncanny witch directed that chilling smile at Quintus, the corners of her mouth curving upwards but her eyes containing nothing even remotely resembling humor. Quintus felt a cold creep up from the crown of his head right down to his toes. "Chief Inspector," she said. "Brace yourself. Perhaps you would like to take a seat?"

"What?" Quintus furrowed his brow into a peeved frown. "Stop fooling around, woman, and just get on with it!"

"Suit yourself, then. Quintus Lex, sir, prepare for a surprise, and don't tell me you haven't been forewarned." The Court Wizard extended her arm toward the prisoner. "For you are looking at none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself, the would-be King of the free people of Skyrim." She paused, cocking her head at the prisoner. "Or what's left of him."

The initial reaction in Quintus' mind was to roll his eyes, as jesting was the last thing he'd been expecting from the grim sorceress. Then, however, he arrived at an unnerving realization that she was not in fact being facetious in the least. He looked then at the prisoner, the alleged late leader of Skyrim's rebellion from nigh twenty years ago. The deformed man raised his shaggy head and looked up right at him. The gravity of that gaze just about confirmed it.

At that very moment, Quintus' jaw dropped, his eyes bulged, and a shock like a sudden spell of freezing ran through him. All over his body, he felt the hairs stand up on end. "What . . ." he stammered. "Wh—How?"

He blinked, feeling at once like he was going to burst in tears and that his ducts had dried up altogether. Each blink of his eye as he stared at the prisoner sprawled across the cracked stone wall seemed to slough off another layer of scales from over his eyes. He saw with increasing clarity that the mad words that the witch had spoken were absolutely true. Those features: he'd recognize them anywhere, from all the countless times he'd seen them sketched on pages of a book. Not even the years of whatever abuse he'd experienced could have wiped away the proud dimensions of the man's face.

This truly was Ulfric Stormcloak.

"How?" repeated the visibly entertained Stentor. "Why, it's quite simple. Elisif requested that Ulfric's life be spared and instead forfeit to her. A perfectly justifiable request, if you ask me. And, as it happened, the Imperial representatives agreed."

Tullius! Even in the midst of his most profound bafflement, Quintus' blood surged at the thought. What an unspeakable outrage, if the man—that country bumpkin from Bravil, who with who knows what stroke of luck had clawed his way up to be the general of the Fourth Division—truly would have made such a private deal with the High Queen, without as much as a word of this going to the Emperor himself! Quintus could hardly believe that the man would have had the audacity.

But then, after he'd calmed down just a bit, it occurred to him that Stentor might just as well be lying. Yet, if that were the case, then what would explain that the Empire took Ulfric for dead? Tullius might have been something of a dolt, but he was no fool. He would have known the difference between dead and alive.

_The witch must be speaking the truth_! Quintus decided. He'd have to give Rikke a severe chiding when he next saw her. The woman must have known as well and yet had said nothing! Quintus felt his cheeks burn with righteous anger.

His mind had performed these operations in an instant, as was usual. The rapidity of the succession of different considerations and their corresponding emotional responses as they showed themselves on the Chief Inspector's countenance would certainly have appeared confusing to anyone watching. Yet, Stentor remained quite unaffected. Both the impassive little curve of her lips and the amused, malignant gleam in those peculiar eyes stood as fixed as ever.

"As you might have guessed," she said, "this is the secret, the one you needed to know."

Quintus was still suffering from an uncharacteristic lack of succinct vocabulary. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did I need to know?" In other words: how could Ulfric Stormcloak help him solve the murder which had happened after his supposed "death"? Quintus waved his hand at the living mort. "Has he been here this whole time?"

"Indeed he has."

"Then," Quintus threw his arms out, " _what_?"

"You might be surprised," Stentor replied equably. "Because he has something to tell you." Without turning to look, she then addressed the Stormcloak. "Don't you, dear? Would you perhaps like to tell the good Inspector yourself?"

The man once known as Ulfric had gone back to hanging down his head as if he were passed out. But on the Court Wizard's urging, he at once raised his battered features, the feverish look of his eyes making Quintus recoil once again. With visible effort, the man cracked his chafed, withered lips and let out an incomprehensible sequence of noises. The sound of his voice was like a rusty metal door being pried off its hinges.

Suppressing a shiver, Quintus frowned.

"Oh, don't worry!" Sybille laughed. "His speech is quite unintelligible to anyone not accustomed to it." She turned her face to the perturbed Chief Inspector, her smile almost sweet. "You see, he has no tongue."

"No tongue?"

Sybille shook her head. "None."

Quintus' face puckered in disgust. Not that this new detail stood out as particularly gruesome as far as the whole sorry spectacle went, but in some way it just about crowned the rest of the obscene inhumanity of the scene. "Oh, gods," he muttered.

Stentor raised an eyebrow at his reaction. "You _are_ familiar with the exact way that Ulfric dispatched the High King, are you not? Have you perhaps ever witnessed someone torn to pieces simply as a result of a single word uttered by another? Because _I_ have; saw the whole thing with my own eyes. So obviously we had to take away his . . . "weapon", if you will. And besides." She gave her shoulders an untroubled shrug. "It's quite likely that, even if we had not taken his tongue from him, he would have ended up chewing it off before long."

Just so that he would have to look at neither the repulsive woman nor the abhorrent man, Quintus turned his head away. His eyes went back to the torture implements at the back. How _did_ you take a man's tongue? Do you simply pull it out with a pair of pliers, or would you have to hack it off?

Feeling his stomach turning over, he was forced to look at the floor instead. Keeping his composure was getting harder and harder.

"Something upsetting you?" Stentor asked.

Quintus tore his eyes from the floor and glowered at the witch. "Something—something upsetting me!"

"Yes."

"What do you think?" he cried, whipping his hand wildly over the whole scene. "This!"

"This?"

"This! This is . . . is . . ."

Stentor frowned with an inquiring squint to her eyes. "What?"

"It's barbaric!"

"Oh?" replied Sybille with something as close to indignation as her perpetually sneering derisive aspect would permit. "And how do you think the Empire would had rewarded him had they caught him alive? With nothing better than death, I assume, and I suspect not a good one, either. At least we let him keep his life"

Quintus' eyes bulged. " _Life_! Is that what you call this?"

"You'd be amazed what sort of conditions get called that."

"I have some idea," Quintus muttered, studying the once more inactive Stormcloak. He then gave his head a livid shake. "Regardless: do you even have any idea of the gravity of your offence? He should belong to the Emperor!"

"Oh?" said Stentor. "As I recall, it was Elisif's husband he murdered, not the Emperor's."

"That doesn't justify—"

"No, I don't suppose it does. And yet, justice has been served. Look at him: do killers of kings truly deserve any better?"

Quintus did not want to look at the man any more than was strictly necessary. Not that he was particularly fond of gazing upon the foul sorceress, either, but he had to admit there was something strangely magnetizing about the sight of her. There just didn't seem to be anything living behind that mask of arrogant amusement.

"As I told you," the woman said, "I was there, present when Ulfric cowardly struck down Torygg. Saw him torn asunder. I'll never forget it as long as I shall live." While she said this, however, the smile never left her lips.

"You still seem positively grief-stricken," remarked Quintus.

Stentor shrugged. "Time, as they say, heals all wounds. When you've been around long enough, you simply stop bleeding altogether."

"I know exactly what you mean," Quintus muttered, looking down at his boots.

Stentor regarded him sardonically. "I'm sure you do . . . _old man,_ " she said. The deeply condescending tone of the woman's voice got Quintus to look up, but she had already turned her attention to the immobile Ulfric. "So, what now?" she said. "You go back and tell the Emperor everything?"

"Don't think for a second I wouldn't. In fact, it is my duty to do so."

"Yes, sure," said Stentor. "Duty." She gave a weary sigh. "Alright, let's say you do. What then? The Emperor will be forced to dethrone the High Queen and thus lose someone who has proven to be a very useful ally. This way he would come to threaten the delicate balance of this province, the whole Empire. Me they would probably just execute, unless they found use for my . . . gifts. But what of you? Do you think that the Emperor would love you for you doing your duty?" She shook her head. "No, I believe not. You would have to say goodbye to your dreams of a rejuvenated career; you would have given away your final chance for that."

"The Emperor would—"

"Would thank you for your vigilance, yes. Officially. But in private he, and whoever are closest to him, would curse your name for putting him into such a difficult spot. You could give your farewells to any hope of forging your good name anew. It would be right back to that dump at High Rock with you, drowning yourself in drink and perversions."

Quintus frowned at these words, at their unnervingly personal nature. But then, he had figured out by now he was dealing with a person well informed about things that were nobody's secrets anyway. He gave a nod. "I can tell you have experience with these sorts of negotiations."

"I've seen my share."

"So." Quintus shrugged. "What do you want?"

"Me?"

"Yes, clearly there's something you expect to get from me. Don't pretend you don't, I know far too well how this game is played."

"We want the same thing you do, Inspector."

" _Chief_ Inspector."

"To have this assassination solved for once and for all. Just maybe for a slightly different reason."

"You want to get the Empire off your back."

"They still kept bringing up the previous Emperor's assassination, pressuring Elisif about it. She would simply like to be left in peace . . . for good."

"That's understandable," said Quintus. "Though I feel there's something more."

Sybille shrugged. "I already have everything I need."

"I wonder."

"Wonder all you want, _Chief_ Inspector. I have no need to conceal my intentions."

I'm not a liar—the motto of liars everywhere.

Quintus suppressed a sigh. He wasn't going to solve it today. He might as well take what he could. "Very well," he said. "So, what now?"

"It's obvious I will have to serve as the interpreter in your talk with Ulfric."

"You can understand him?"

"Let's just say we've come to understand each other over the years."

"Do we start now?"

"Would you like to?"

The prisoner looked completely unresponsive, his head swaying softly to the rhythm of his steadily rising and falling chest.

"I think he's asleep," said Quintus.

"I doubt that. He truly never sleeps. Though the High Queen did still wish to talk to you."

"How long will the whole thing take? You know what he will say?"

"Some of it, obviously, though not the whole thing. Enough to suppose that it will be of some importance. But there really is no telling how long. He is anything but consistent."

Quintus nodded. "Alright. Take me back, then. We shall return, say, after lunch?"

"Either way," Sybille said. "I don't really eat. But I would not mind resting a bit before we begin. I'm not accustomed to being awake at this hour."

"We have agreed, then," said Quintus, eager to get out of here, if only for couple of hours. "Take me to Elisif."

He kept his manner stolid and civil when talking with the High Queen again, yet making it known how strongly he disapproved her actions. Elisif, once again, showed no sign of being the slightest bit moved by his approvals or disapprovals, and, by the time he finally escaped the circumference of her contemptuous regard, Quintus couldn't decide which he found more agitating: the darkness down in the dungeons where the vile sorceress had led him, or that blaring light upstairs, closing in around Her Superciliousness.

In any case, by the time he was walking down the slope leading back toward the Castle Dour, the deeply humiliated Chief Inspector was cursing copiously, the name of the one person he could not blame in person like a scathing rash on his mind.

_Tullius!_

In his absence, however, Rikke would simply have to do.

 


	18. The Frozen City

"Wake up, sleepyhead!"

The sound of Runa's voice paired with a resolute shove brought Ariela out of her state of deep slumber. It took her a second to orient herself as to their current place in the world. Wherever it was, it was cold.

_Damn_ cold.

The autumn landscape of yellow and brown had changed into one of frosty blue. The land was barren, sparse in trees and those few limited to spruces protruding here and there, a light blanket of snow shrouding them along with the ground. A freezing wind made Ariela shiver, and she instinctively tried to tug tighter her coat, already as snug as it was going to get. Her breath came out as a puff of mist so thick it looked about to solidify in front of her eyes.

"Here we are," Runa informed. She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them by her breath. "Curse it, I always forget to dress accordingly!"

The city of Windhelm stood at the foot of a mountain draped in mist. Its stone walls being of the exact same gray, and it being similarly covered with a topping of snow and ice, it looked as if the city had formed by itself over time from hunks of rock eroded off the adjacent mountainside. Leading from the stables to the main gate was a large stone bridge, which looked like an extension of the city's wall, complete with battlements running on both sides of the walkway. Clearly this was a city built with warfare in mind. Under the bridge ran the clear, icy water of the Yorgrim River. Here it met with the mighty White River, and with joined strength, they carried on out toward the Sea of Ghosts.

"So," Runa said. "I assume you don't want to keep sitting around, testing how long it takes for our heinies to freeze permanently to these seats? 'Cause in that case, I suggest we get going."

Ariela's mentioned heiney was in fact quite numb. Whether that was more due to the cold or to the uncomfortable travel conditions, she couldn't tell. And as she got out of the carriage to stretch her legs, trying to rub life back into them, she also found her lower back to be wicked sore.

Frost walked up from behind Ariela, then, stopping to rub his muzzle against her shoulder.

"Well, hello to you too, Frost," she said. "Did you have as pleasant a travel as us?"

The large stallion snorted and shook his mane, but Ariela could not say whether it should have been interpreted as affirmation or negation. So instead of trying to figure that out, she reached out her hand and patted the animal's side. He seemed to accept that without difficulty.

Behind Frost were the local stables, and Ariela noticed with some amusement that the way the horses there reacted to Frost's presence was on par with those she'd noticed earlier. The way they looked at him was pretty much exactly the way most people seemed to regard Runa.

She looked towards the Nord, who was in the process of paying the driver. They appeared to be having a little exchange, which Ariela guessed wasn't haggling. The woman's voice was too quiet to discern what it was she was saying, but from her facial expression and body language, one could gather it must have been something raunchy. This was further confirmed by the somewhat flushed face of the young man as he looked after the departing Runa, while she herself carried an impish little smirk.

Ariela smothered an impulse to shake her head once again. After all, if she did that every time Runa gave her some reason to, she might just wind up spraining something.

"What?" Runa asked, walking by. She frowned at Ariela, who clearly hadn't been able to fully conceal her feelings, and seemed to guess exactly what was going on in the other woman's mind. "Where's the fun in life without a little flirt?"

Ariela had to admit she didn't have an answer for that one.

Walking across the immense bridge, Ariela felt as if she'd entered some old story, like the ones she could remember her father telling her. Particularly one about the city of the Ice King sprang to mind. Considering the frost-covered sturdy wall approaching them, she could really imagine a race of white-skinned tall beings inhabiting the city behind it. Though it wasn't likely she was going to find a peaceful, harmonious utopia within those walls. They were, after all, clearly built by people who had known their share of bloodshed, and were likely to experience more in the future. The three eagle heads looming atop the gate dispelled any remaining illusions of peace-loving beings from her mind. The angry fashion in which their beaks hung open made it easy to imagine the screaming wind against the mountainside and the city walls as their bellicose battle-cry.

Inside the gate, however, waited nothing more or less than a regular city.

Well, a regular city on ice, that was. Everything was frozen here! Powdery snow clung to the walls of charcoal stone and the shingled wooden gable roofs like flour to the baker's apron, and all over the dark surfaces glistened with frost. Formidable rows of icicles hung down from nearly every nook and cranny like the teeth of gargantuan Frost Trolls. Braziers set up here and there on the streets did their best to compete with the cold, their smoke mixing with the vapors from the thawing ice around them.

Despite the cold, though, Ariela found herself instantly liking it here. The unassuming yet unapologetic roughness of it reminded her a lot of Bruma in the north of Cyrodiil. This, of course, was no surprise, since Bruma had been largely built by Nord immigrants. But Windhelm still had an altogether unique flavor; it was as if, being further from the Imperial center, it had managed to retain more of its authenticity. And, what was more, she also found herself elated by the recent historical significance of the place. She could imagine the troops of the Fourth Legion led by the illustrious General Tullius marching down these very same streets, the wind ruffling about the dusty snow all around them, the sounds of their footsteps on the stone echoing in the narrow passageways; on their way to confront the treacherous Ulfric Stormcloack and to bring peace back to Skyrim.

It was naive fantasy, of course, and Ariela would be the first to admit it. Real war was nowhere as glorious and clean as the official accounts of history would have you believe. There were no heroes or villains, and even fewer winners. Nevertheless, she allowed herself be lulled into her childish fantasies for a little while; the little girl inside her deserved her moment of unrealistic excitement.

The populace of the city seemed to make a point of not meeting the eyes of a stranger, which enabled her to better study them. In addition to the dominantly Nord population, there were also a number of Dunmer stalking the streets. They seemed to take extra care to avoid any sort of eye contact, instead sailing past with their swarthy faces and peculiar glowing crimson eyes concealed under a cloak, or simply walking eyes cast on the cobblestone in front of them. Even in passing, Ariela could sense their utter otherness: even after years of residence, they somehow still seemed to fit in poorly.

A few Argonians also passed. They didn't exactly seem to fit in either, but, unlike the Dunmer, they held their heads up high, as though to proclaim to anyone watching their equal right to inhabit the city. During his office, Jarl Ulfric had instated a decree banning the Reptilian people from living within the city walls, a restriction lifted after his death at the conclusion of the Civil War. It was likely many of the same individuals still living there today who had experienced the humiliation. No wonder, then, if they still felt the need to assert themselves as equals to the Nords, even though the latter were not known for their exuberant tolerance or for their deficiency of stubborn pride.

To some surprise, though, Ariela saw that despite the bad blood that had been long flowing between these two minorities, the Argonians and the Dunmer, there were no obvious signs of animosity between the two.

The women walked past the town marketplace, which was tucked in the city's northwestern corner. At the smithy residing beside the marketplace, a middle-aged smith lifted her gaze as they passed her. When she saw Runa, her look turned sour, and she spat on the ground after them. Ariela wondered what that was all about, but Runa herself seemed to take no notice whatsoever, so the scholar thought it was best to leave the matter be.

On they walked, until they arrived at a quiet quarter at the opposite corner from the market. This area held large multistory houses, the same eagle heads as the ones on the main gate etched on the tops of the gates guarding the entryways. Runa stopped in front of a house at the very furthest corner. As it was with the other houses here, it reminded Ariela a little of a church, with its sharply rising gable roof and adorned window glasses.

"Here we are," Runa said. "Shall we?"

"Please," Ariela replied. Her hands were rapidly losing all their feeling from the cold.

They walked up to the door. Runa gave it three vigorous pounds, then waited. When there was no response, she gave it three more. It wasn't until after four series of knocks that they finally heard a muffled male voice from behind the door.

"Who is it?" it asked. "We're expecting no visitors today." The voice was either old or sleepy; or perhaps both.

"It's the Windhelm Guard," Runa declared, deepening her voice. "We heard something about a murder, so best you open up, and open up quick!"

After a short pause, there was the rustle of locks being opened. Then the door cracked a bit, revealing a wrinkled face with sleepy yet inquisitive eyes. The owner of the face gave a soft grunt, and the door opened the rest of the way. A newly-roused looking old man in a tattered night robe stood at the entrance. He looked Runa up and down. "So," he said in his tired voice. "Young lady Fair-Shield. It's been a while. I see you haven't lost your knack for . . . _humor_." The way he enunciated the word was like it wasn't supposed to refer to anything remotely amusing in the first place.

"And I see you still spend most of your time in bed in hopes of Lady Death finding you there, Calder."

"Yes," the old man yawned. "And what earns me this great pleasure this afternoon?"

"Supper. I trust it's ready?"

"Mm-hmm," the man muttered. "Always ready for one of your ladyship's sporadic visits; no matter how rare and unpredictable." He arched a bushy eyebrow at Ariela. "And a . . . friend?"

"An associate," said Runa.

"I see. Well, do come in."

As the door closed behind her, Ariela started to vigorously rub her hands together. It wasn't until she'd stepped into the relative warmth of the house that she could fully appreciate how cold she'd been. The feeling gradually returned to her hands, causing an uncomfortable tickle under the reddened skin.

The main hall of the house was large, and since there was no fire it wasn't like it was all that warm in there either. The old man wore only a simple brown robe with bare feet yet looked completely comfortable with his choice of garb. There was something about these Nords that made them immune to the chill. He had long hair down to his shoulders, accompanied by a pair of thick mutton chops—all graying but not without a hint left behind of their original ginger. His sagging cheeks together with his tired, droopy eyes, which Ariela now judged to simply be their permanent aspect, gave out an impression of a sour-tempered discernment of whatever he was setting his gaze on. Though slumped in posture, his body had a dexterousness to it that together with the scars on his face bespoke a history of battle. Or perhaps that was just the Nord stereotype Ariela was starting to adopt.

"So, will there be anything else, miss?" Calder asked, yawning. "Or may I go resume my afternoon nap?"

Runa flicked her fingers at him. "Go on," she said. "We can show ourselves to the pantries."

At that the man started moseying towards the stairs.

"Oh," Runa called after him. "Sleeping in my mother's bed again?"

Calder turned, looking slightly embarrassed.

Runa laughed. "Don't worry, I won't rat you out. It's not like she comes down here much these days, anyway."

And at this, she released the old man from the captivity of her gaze, and walked to the kitchen.

Ariela followed her. "Your mother?"

"Yup."

Runa motioned for Ariela to sit down in front of the dining table. The room was much cozier than the main hall, if not only for its fireplace. Vegetables, herbs, a skinned rabbit, and a similarly treated pheasant hung drying on hooks on the ceiling.

"So, she owns this place then?" Ariela asked, taking a seat. She grabbed a sweetroll off the table and bit into it. The creamy, sweet topping and the crumbly crust were to die for.

"You _are_ clever," Runa said. She grabbed the ladle sitting in a pot on the cooking spit and shoveled a big bite of vegetable soup into her mouth.

"This place can't be cheap," Ariela said, her mouth full of pastry.

"Yeah, well, my mother is a Thane of Eastmarch, so this house was kind of a gift."

"A thane? Wow." Ariela whistled. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

Runa shrugged. "Nothing. She also happens to be a thane of Falkreath, Haafingar, Whiterun, The Pale, and The Reach too. It's really just an honorary. An empty title, if you will."

Ariela's astonishment must have showed, for Runa gave a little laugh. "Yeah," she said, "the old lady was something of a heroine back in her youth. A war hero, too: helped take out Ulfric himself, she did."

"Really?" Ariela didn't have to pretend to be impressed. At the same time it all made sense, somehow.

"Yeah," Runa said, assuming a somewhat ironic smirk. "So you can see great deeds run in my family." She set a plate of roasted goat's leg on the table and sat down. The meat smelled good. "But, of course, by the time she was my age, she'd already gone soft."

"Soft?"

Runa tore out a piece of the leg. "Yup. Said she grew tired of the killing and of the fact that half the province's toughs were after her head. Settled down, raised some kids. Started to manufacture and sell goods, plus selling valuable artifacts she'd collected during her adventures. Became filthy rich. That sort of stuff."

"I guess that makes sense," Ariela mused.

Runa shrugged. "I guess. Not for me, though!"

"But I take it you had a quite affluent childhood? That must had been nice, at least."

Runa gave Ariela a long, somewhat piqued, look. "And I suppose your parents were but humble and poor farmers?"

"Actually, they were," Ariela said. "My mother always wanted to marry me off to some well-to-do landowner. She kept telling me I was 'so pretty'." Ariela shook her head at the memory. Prototypical mother's self-deception. "But my father saw that I had a good head on my shoulders. I was always inquiring about this and that, and reading any old book that I could get my hands on, learning it by heart and reciting it to anyone unfortunate enough to be equipped with a pair of ears. So, he thought I should be a scholar instead, and sent me over to the Scholar's Guild. Or perhaps he'd simply grown sick of my constant yammering."

A warm feeling overcame Ariela at the memory of the kind old man, with his soft voice that she couldn't remember him raising once in her life—quite unlike her mother. "He was a very wise man, I think. Even if he himself was uneducated and practically illiterate."

"Was?"

"Yeah," Ariela said with a tinge of sorrow. "He and mother both died of a fever a few years into my studies. Didn't learn about it until almost a year later, when my brother finally saw fit to write me a letter. I suspect he did that on purpose; he did always resent me for some reason."

"And where is _he_ now?"

Ariela shrugged. "I don't know. Dead is my guess. Gambling and getting in trouble were his chosen fields of study." She felt sad and annoyed thinking about the past, an activity she'd rather left undone. "So what about you?" she asked, wanting to change the subject. "Any siblings?"

"I had one, sort of. A stepsister. She died as a child."

"Sorry to hear that," Ariela said, regretting having asked. "Your father?"

"Dead." Runa said flatly.

Ariela felt abashed over having navigated into such bleak waters, and since Runa clearly didn't have any desire to carry on the conversation further, she took the opportunity and let it drop.

Several moments were passed in silence, then, save for the sounds of their eating, and for the crackle of the cooking fire in the background. They filled their stomachs with meat, bread, and soup, both content with focusing on the eating instead of engaging in further conversation. Runa had produced a bottle of cheap wine, which she pretty much emptied all by herself, not even bothering to try to offer it to Ariela.

Getting fed regularly had done something to Ariela's appetite. Not that the food didn't taste good, but it wasn't like it was anything really amazing, either. Eating was simply a necessity, just another operation to keep the body going, if a relatively enjoyable one at that. Seemed like her reasonable side was starting to take reign again, now that the ravenous beast within was being subdued. Still, there was something to be said for simply enjoying the base urges, forgetting about the higher ambitions. She would miss that.

Runa drained the rest of the wine in her goblet and slammed the empty thing on the table. She gave a deep guttural burp, and Ariela couldn't keep from wincing. Belching was a particularly revolting habit, in her opinion. Sort of reminded her of her brother, actually.

"Well," Runa said, getting up. "Not to rush you, but when you're done eating, we should pretty much be on our way." She ran a hand over her head. "Right. Suppose I should look for a helmet. Gotta have one of those."

"What for?" Ariela made the question without really giving it any thought.

"Well, for instance," Runa said, "it's a handy aid when attempting to block a sword-blow with your head. That and, of course, it does go with pretty much any outfit."

Arius, her brother, had also been a smart-mouth, Ariela recalled while watching Runa walk out of the kitchen. Unlike Runa, though, he'd also been a fool. And also unlike Runa, he'd been a terrible drunk. No doubt he could've been one of those dangerous, violent ones, had it not been for his undeniably feeble build. Instead he'd been one those drunkard loudmouths always picking a fight and then always getting himself beaten silly.

_Why am I still thinking about him?_

Ariela was finished with her food, so she got up as well and sauntered to the main hall. From upstairs she could hear the sound of Runa rummaging. She saw a big two-hand sword mounted on the wall up there, so presumable it was where the weapons were kept. A precarious thing, Ariela thought, having your weapons lying around where any burglar could get their hands around them. Books were different, for no burglar ever wanted those. What a sad fact that was, for if they had a healthy thirst for knowledge instead of weapons and gold, maybe they wouldn't have to resort to crime in the first place.

Ariela refused to contemplate the potential naivety of her line of thinking.

After some minutes, Runa trod down the stairs wearing a sturdy iron helmet. The heavy metal came down to cover most of her face except for the decently sized eye sockets and the bottom open for the mouth and chin. Thick bovid horns curved down from its sides and turned upward at the tip, like on a ram.

"Look at this: a real classic!" said Runa merrily, the helmet giving her voice a metallic boom. "Whaddaya think?"

"Quite . . . _horny_ ," Ariela said, drawing a snort from the Nord. The rough, dark gray iron had a barely perceptible glow about it. "Enchantment?"

"Yup," Runa said. "I wonder what it's for. I feel like . . ." She raised her hands to grope about the air around her head. "Like nothing special." She dropped her hands and removed the helmet. "Hm, maybe I really should've looked into this enchanting business. I don't suppose you have a knack for it?"

"No," Ariela said, shaking her head. "Actually, that whole mage stuff sort of eludes me. I'm... a _Dull_ , as they say."

"Dull" was the common colloquial term for an individual who had no innate magical abilities. For one reason or another, they simply could not stir magicka, the mysterious energy behind magic, within them. Ariela had initially been sorely disappointed to discover that she herself was one of those unfortunate individuals. As a little girl, for a while, she'd really, _really_ wanted to become a mage. That dream, however, had come to a quite irrevocable end with this discovery. At least she had the little consolation of the fact that there were quite a number of people like her. Some even said that most of the population fell under the category of Dull. Still, it stung to think about sometimes.

"What about you?" she said. "Is that why you don't do spells and stuff?"

"Oh, I'm not one. I can learn magic, just never bothered to. Too busy learning the sword and the like. Not enough time and energy for everything, you know. You don't actually run into much mage-stuff in my circles. My mother knew some, but even she ended up mostly never using it. Takes time to develop it into a really effective weapon. I used to know a little bit of healing, but haven't had to resort to it for quite some time. Not sure I still got the hang of it, to be completely honest."

Runa shrugged. "Anyway. I think we should be about going. You ready?"

"I suppose," said Ariela. "Going to notify Calder?"

The Nord tilted her face towards the ceiling. "Calder!" she cried. "We're leaving! Thanks for the grub!" She then turned back to Ariela. "There: notified. Let's hit it!"

 


	19. The Big Picture

The lunch Quintus had scheduled with General Rikke on the previous night went in a rather loud silence. Scantly a word passed between them the entire time, both pairs of eyes cast on the food ahead of them, or on the meager round table set in the corner of the General's office, or basically on anything but each other. The silence hovering in the space between the diners was emphasized and deepened by the clink of utensils, the sound of chewing and swallowing, an occasional cough or sniffle, and by the muffled sounds of the personnel from the other parts of the castle.

What made the silence so loud were all the incendiary words bubbling within Quintus, which he had so far chosen to leave unspoken, and which he well knew Rikke to be anticipating. This prolonged start of an argument, the raging storm gathering underneath the Chief Inspector's impassive manner, was looming heavily above them.

If he was perfectly honest, he did not really know how to begin. But begin he had to.

Swallowing a mouthful of dry duck roast assisted by a gulp of mediocre wine, he slammed his goblet on the table. This drew a startled twitch from Rikke. Quintus stared hard at the surprised looking woman, sucking at the remaining food in his molars. "I was under the impression," he said in measured, drawn out syllables, which barely managed to conceal his anger, "that, at the end of the day, she was still just a puppet."

Rikke frowned at this opening. "What I said," she replied to Quintus with a deliberateness mirroring his, "was that despite her willful independence, as an ally of the Empire, she's still loyal to the bone."

"That's what I said!" rejoined Quintus. "Well, from where I stand, it doesn't exactly look like that, now does it?"

Rikke's brows shot up in surprise. Was she really as dumb as she looked?

Quintus mimicked the woman's expression. "Well?" he barked. " _Lying_ to the Emperor for all these years?"

"The High Queen did not—"

"She withheld important information. Not telling the truth still counts for lying!"

Rikke didn't look to have a reply for that one.

"And you!" Quintus went on. "You knew all about it and you wouldn't . . . wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't what?" The General frowned, making a questioning gesture with her hand: offering it to Quintus palm up, as if expecting him to lay the answer on it.

Quintus was just about able to swallow the rest of his sentence: "— _tell me_ ", and thus save himself from coming across as a childish dolt. "Yes, well," he then said more calmly, taking a mouthful from his goblet, "I suppose you _were_ only following commands." He then slammed the cup back on the table, wine splashing. "But that _Tullius_! Don't even get me started on the man! What on Nirn was he _thinking_?"

Rikke sighed, nodding. "Far be it from me to call the General's choices into question. But I have to admit to having been surprised, myself. When I asked him about it, he confessed having initially been vehemently against the idea, but that Elisif had managed to jawbone him in the end. I don't know how she managed that, for Tullius was nothing if not firm in his decisions."

_Jawbone, eh?_ Quintus attacked the remaining piece of meat on his plate with his knife, cutting it in half. "I might have an idea," he muttered.

At that, Rikke pricked up like a haunting dog catching a scent. "Pardon me? Now, if you're in any way insinuating that General Tullius would have—"

Quintus waved a hand. "Forget I said anything." He popped half of the cut piece of duck in his mouth, chewed hastily, and drowned the rest with the remaining wine in his cup. "Now, I might even be able to understand his position—and a very strong emphasis on "might"—but how in _Oblivion_ was the old fool even able to pull it off!"

Rikke lowered her gaze on the table, as if embarrassed.

"I mean," Quintus went on, "there were eyewitnesses for Aetherius' sake!" When Rikke wouldn't reply or meet his gaze, he frowned. " _Weren't_ there?"

Rikke pulled her gaze up from the table top, a new confidence in it, and nodded. "Yes. Well, not eyewitnes _ses_ but rather _an_ eyewitness."

Quintus waited for an elaboration.

Rikke harrumphed the last of uncertainty from her voice. "In addition to me and Tullius, a soldier, a distinguished member of the legion, one whose word would be trusted, was present that day."

An understanding dawned on the Chief Inspector. "And I take it that his involvement was anything but coincidental."

" _Her_ ," Rikke corrected, then shook her head. "And no, it was not a coincidence."

Quintus reached for the wine bottle and poured himself a cupful. He did not offer it to Rikke. "Tell me how it all happened, then."

Rikke shrugged. "It was nothing special, really. Tullius' blade was treated with a special alchemical solution that would send Stormcloak into a death-like state, yet keep his vitals running. We dealt with his second-in-command in the usual way, but the blow the General dealt Ulfric only appeared to be lethal. Then, once the legionary in question had been sent on her way—guaranteed to spread the word around the troops—we cleared the throne room of the Palace, threw Ulfric in a body bag, and surreptitiously brought him to where he is now. The Court Wizard assumably brought the man back from his daze, but I personally have never seen him since; and, quite frankly, have avoided thinking about the whole business up until now. I'm sure Tullius felt just the same, given that he would since talk of Ulfric as if he were truly dead. I think in the end that was what he'd rather had believed, too."

Rikke's gaze and her voice had both dropped in the course of her recount, and she was now staring wistfully at the remains of her meal. A nearly imperceptible shudder ran through her.

Quintus sipped his wine, suddenly deep in thought. If what Rikke had just told him was indeed true—and he had little reason to believe it wasn't—he had to admit that the whole thing had certain ingenious simplicity to it. If he had to deliver a sworn enemy to a ghastly fate as revenge, he could only hope to be able to show such canniness. "Well," he said finally, as Rikke showed no sign of emerging from her pathetic little slump, "I have to say that's quite a little story."

Rikke raised pained eyes to meet his entertained stare. He lip curled just a bit, then she lowered her eyes anew. "I guess you could say as much," she muttered.

Quintus let out a little laugh, amused partly by Rikke's anecdote, partly by her reaction to it. For reasons he could not quite explain, he felt somewhat elated, his anger allayed. "Oh yes, quite the story indeed. I realize now it was no idle talk when you told me you and the General shared secrets between you." He shook his head, swallowed more wine. He almost wished he could talk to the man himself about this, just to see his reaction. But unfortunately Tullius had been announced "lost in action" during the war, when they'd broken off a part of the Fourth Legion and sent them to secure the Cyrodiil-Hammerfell boarder. Killed, no doubt, in one of the scuffles that had bled into the Empire's side, but which the Empire had kept hushed about.

Rikke had once more seemed to recover from her slump. She looked to be weighing out a proper response, finding none. She regarded Quintus with cool eyes, the impassiveness of which he knew to hide a genuine disdain.

_And the feeling, my sweet, could not be any more mutual!_ Quintus sneered at the dour woman. "And such secrets! What might be next? Next I shall find out it that truly _was_ a great black dragon that incinerated Helgen!" He gave a hearty chuckle.

People, ever the superstitious fools, had been talking about it ever since—believing in all certainty that a mythical beast had risen from the midst of times just to liberate Ulfric and then vanish into thin air. This, of course, had been a vital part of the Stormcloak propaganda, as clear a sign as they could ever have hoped for as to the legitimacy of Ulfric's claim to power. Then, after Ulfric's so-called demise, once it had become obvious his reign was not exactly backed up by any sort of supernatural powers worth adhering to, word of mouth had held that the appearance of this dragon didn't mark a new era of independence for Skyrim at all, but rather the end of times for everyone. The plebs, Quintus had found, were ever keeping an eye on the end of the word, almost as if they hoped for it more than feared it. And given the sort of world most of them occupied, he could scant blame them for it.

He was genuinely surprised to find Rikke staring at him with something like alarm in her eyes. The look, however, was ephemeral, melting away so fluidly as to not leave a trace behind it. Still, the way she even now regarded him was not at all what he might have expected. Did the woman not possess the slightest sense of humor?

He grunted. "What, you don't think I'm serious, do you?" It was, he now considered, a distinct possibility the Nord actually would be that dense. "I might be of a suspicious nature, and you people might have taken me a bit off guard with this Ulfric business, but am I as paranoid as to start believing in children's fairy-tales now?" He laughed. "No, I think not. I should hope so at least!"

The General relaxed visibly, flashing a deeply unconvincing little smile at the Chief Inspector. "No, of course not," she said quietly, and reached out for the wine bottle, the contents of which Quintus had nearly entirely upended. "I obviously didn't believe that to be the case."

Once recovered from his amusement, Quintus regarded the Nord. A suspicion flashed inside him that she was playing some game with him, but the feeling soon faded. If anything, she came across as absolutely guileless. He shrugged. "No, if anything I still don't understand how you lot ended up bungling that up in the first place. I mean, you had him, his head on the block, and then you let his cronies come set him free?"

Rikke cleared his throat. "I must confess the Stormcloaks managed to take us completely by surprise there. We had no idea they would have access to such . . . arsenal."

"What are we talking about here?" asked Quintus. "Catapults? They did level almost the entire town."

"Catapults, yes," Rikke nodded. "And more. The main thing is they took us unawares. It was one of those things Tullius took as a personal failing, that he could have been so slipshod about it. But I personally would not blame him for it."

Quintus smacked his mouth contemplatively. "No, you wouldn't, would you."

Suddenly his mood was taking another turn to the sour. All this talk of Tullius was getting to him, he realized. He was loathe to waste so much breath on the overvalued shit-kicker. The thing to disgust him the most, however, was Rikke's fawning attitude regarding the General. He entertained no doubt that she would have gotten down on her knees and slobbered all over the man's knob in a finger snap, had the command been given. The mere though made him want to curl his lip.

"So is that why Helgen was never rebuilt?" he said. "To stand as a testament to Tullius' failure?"

Rikke gave an unamused laugh. "Hardly. No, I believe the Empire simply never got around to channeling resources for it, nor did they make it a priority; and Elisif obviously had plenty else to think about. Plus, when it was finally time to think of rebuilding, what remained of the town was already riddled by bandits. We simply never dealt with the matter, and over time, people just forgot about it. Our resources have been limited, anyway."

"And just let the criminals take over," Quintus grunted, almost to himself. "I do believe I detect a pattern here."

Another suspicion flashed then. Helgen. Could _that_ be where the Nightingale was hiding? But he very soon abandoned the idea as way too obvious.

"So, what of you?" he said. "Tullius nominates you to inherit his position as the military governor of Skyrim. That's usually a war-time station, but here you still are. Must be a cushy job with no war to fight!"

Rikke frowned. "Cushy?" A snort escaped her. "I should wish! No, they've kept me plenty busy over the years. Took us damn near two of them just to finally stub out the last Stormcloak pockets in the province! And they say residues still exist somewhere out there." She gave her head an agitated shake. "And since then I've been in charge of the troops' training, keeping them in check in the event of new insurgencies, devising strategies to keep that from happening and to deal with them if they nonetheless did."

She took a deep breath. "Then there's the continual correspondence with the Imperial headquarters, conveying updated strategies to local officers and troops, reporting back on the developments in the north, going though threat scenarios in case of a large-scale Dominion invasion against the Empire—not to mention training the troops to respond to such an event— _and_ , perhaps ironically, at the same time dealing with the demands and queries from the Thalmor embassy. Yeah, I'd say there's quite a bit of work to be done on my plate. And no end of it in sight, either!"

"The Dominion, yes," Quintus mused, having listened to the General's hearty litany with half an ear. "We'll get to that in a bit." Rikke let out a shaky breath, visibly on edge. Quintus nearly smiled. She was simply so easy! Little wonder Tullius had found uses for her. He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Yes, of course. How unthoughtful of me. I should have known, obviously, what a vital part you play here."

Rikke eyed him with suspicion. She was clearly not the sharpest of blades in the Emperor's armory, despite having her uses. For one, she was a breeze to manipulate. Quintus would have found all this fun, but a pang of concern stopped him.

"Listen," he said appeasingly. "You might take me as angry on account of this Stormcloak debacle." He flashed a tight-lipped smile. "But I'm not."

Rikke raised a brow. "No?"

Quintus shook his head. "Not in the least. In fact, the whole thing makes sense in a way. Hell, were I the High Queen, I may have well done the same!" Now, that might have not been exactly accurate, but Quintus was not, he realized, lying about not being upset. After all, what business was it of his in the end? Whether Ulfric was alive or dead was of little consequence regarding his own goals. Or so he would have thought. In fact, what bothered him was that he couldn't be sure. He shrugged again. "I do sympathize. However . . ." He leaned closer. "I am concerned."

"Concerned, High Inspector?"

Quintus smiled, involuntary this time, at hearing his title uttered again. The smile soon faded to be replaced by a more appropriately grave frown. "Indeed, concerned."

"About what?" Rikke went to finish her wine, then noticed she had already done so. Frowning, she set the goblet down on the table.

"About the fact that it _is_ Ulfric Stormcloak who brought me here." Quintus paused, checking if his insinuation stuck home with the General. Didn't seem to. He sighed. "Ulfric Stormcloak who's spent the last two decades in a dungeon?" Still nothing. He sighed deeper. "Hardly any new information he's going to provide me with, now is he?"

"I fail to see the problem," Rikke shrugged. "If he knows the identity of the killer then that fact has hardly changed over the years, am I wrong?"

Quintus regarded the woman a few moments. "Somehow I really doubt he knows it, though. It just doesn't seem likely."

"I don't see why not."

Quintus narrowed his eyes at the General. "So . . . what: you think it truly might have been the Stormcloaks behind the murder?"

As might have been expected, that had been one of the three initial lines of investigation. That it had been the Stormcloaks who'd ordered the deed. The only, and rather an unelectable, problem with that one, was the fact that by the time of the assassination, the war had already been over. Not that it would have been utterly inconceivable for the Rebels to have hired the Brotherhood in revenge for their defeat, but given the lack of evidence and the fact that other culprits seemed more feasible, Quintus had soon dropped the idea.

Rikke shrugged. "Not necessarily. But I wouldn't be surprised."

"I just don't see it," Quintus muttered. He had his reasons for thinking as he did, but those reasons he would not be sharing with the General. He grunted. "Maybe he'll announce the return of the Stormcloaks!" Rikke did not look amused. "What, you're saying that wouldn't surprise you either?"

Rikke's eye was drawn to the table top. She shook her head quietly, rubbing her temple with her right hand. "I don't know. It's just my work here, is all. Made me all wary of such possibilities." She picked up her gaze off the table, looked level at Quintus. "There's rumors, you see. About Ulfric's niece, mainly, who was supposedly a staunch follower of the cause, and who supposedly survived the war. They say she fled Skyrim, but has been preparing a return. Word is she's kept up the tradition her uncle started, even taken his title upon herself. Kirsten Stormcloak, they call her."

"And you believe any rumor you hear?"

Rikke grunted, partly amused, partly in disbelief. "Honestly, I'm not sure what I believe anymore."

Quintus gave dry laugh. "I'd say believing is much overrated. Me, I take cold facts over the coziest of beliefs." Even while he spoke the words, he wondered how much he truly meant them.

"I'd drink to that," Rikke said with a weary smile. "Were there any drink left."

_Speaking of which!_ Quintus fought the urge to smack his dry lips. Yet Rikke made no motion to remedy the situation she had herself just diagnosed. Damn the woman, was she going to make him _ask_ for it!

"Regardless," he said, waving a hand as if to dispel the tiresome subject Rikke was mulling on. "The Stormcloaks were not behind the Emperor's death. I'll hold on to _that_ belief until sufficient facts surface to prove me wrong."

That led to line of investigation number two. The Dominion.

After all, who would have better benefitted from a temporarily paralyzed Empire? It had seemed nearly unavoidable that they would have used the confusion as a smoke screen of sorts and commenced a full-blown offence. Well, they had, but not against Cyrodiil. Instead, they'd gone after Hammerfell. This had been a simultaneous relief and a cause of deep alarm for the Empire. It had plunged Hammerfell into a state of panicked chaos and the ripples were felt far beyond its borders.

The Dominion had been clever about it; that had to be acknowledged. The first city they had taken, Rihad, a southern port city right by Cyrodiil's border, had been virtually handed to them. In fact, no word of violence, save for the large-scale slaughter of the Satakal worshipers, deemed the most heinous kind of heretics by the Dominion, had drifted outside the city's walls. For all that anyone could see, the city had surrendered itself, and very soon it was said to indeed have sold out. This rumor had soon seemed confirmed, as the Dominion troops soon took over the whole of the southern province without much resistance and declared the Dominion Protectorate of the Southern Hammerfell. The only city to remain in strong opposition to them had been Sentinel in the east.

The Redguards of the north had been aghast. Very soon, one of the two old factions of the province, the Crowns, had blamed the other, the Forebears, who happened to have represented a large portion of Rihad's population, for what had happened. They had accused the Forebears of high treason and for selling out to the Dominion—and quite obviously the Forebears had not taken such accusations lightly. The province was now not only under threat from the Aldmeri Dominion but at risk of launching into another civil war, as well. All of a sudden, the peace between the two factions, established after their joined efforts to free their home from the Dominion years before, was at risk of shattering, along with that same freedom they had together fought to achieve.

This was where the Empire had had to step in. They'd done everything in their power to provide military assistance to Hammerfell, while still not engaging in open warfare with the Thalmor. It had been an incredibly risky game on their part, but it had been of utmost importance that Hammerfell not be allowed to be swallowed by the realm of Elven supremacists. That would have surely marked not only the beginning of the end for the Empire, but possibly the end of freedom for the non-Elven races of all Tamriel. And slavery, after the centuries of freedom earned by the rebellion of Alessia, was not an option.

And, as if by a miracle, the Dominion had been stopped. For the time being. The southern part of Hammerfell, now ostensibly independent, remained under their control, and the norther part was made an Imperial protectorate. This had left the Redguard far less than happy, but through gritted teeth they had submitted to their fate. For now.

But any fool could tell the Dominion had only made their first move. Though Hammerfell might have been in a state of truce, talk of skirmishes all around the province were heard almost daily. The Dominion, while letting its new Redguard allies do the fighting, was biding its time, waiting to see the opposite side's next move.

And the opposite, it turned out, was doing bugger all.

There wasn't much they _could_ be doing! It was tough enough to keep their own domain together, as was shown by the events in Skyrim. The Thalmor were certainly doing what they could to undermine that unity. Their agents were said to work tirelessly, doing their damnedest to bring about discord within the provinces. Some said they had been behind the Stormcloak rebellion: that Ulfric had been turned by them during his captivity in their hands. All kinds of rumors abounded, one on top of another. Some regarding High Rock, which at times seemed to have kept together only by the fear and hatred its kingdoms all felt for the Dominion. Despite being distantly related to the Altmer, there was hardly any love lost between the two. It was no secret that the Dominion regarded the human descendants of the Aldmer—the Altmer's ancestors and the first of Mer on Nirn, the ones from whom they'd stolen the name of their own empire—as a lowly mongrel race. This fact made the latter wary of them.

The real question mark in High Rock, however, was Orsinium. The kingdom of Orcs had ever fantasized about independence, and were no doubt subjected to Thalmor's anti-mannish propaganda. The Dominion could well try to prod the kingdom to attempt seceding from the Empire, and so seek to strike a wedge right down the middle of the province. But so far it hadn't happened, and Empire kept a hard eye on the Orsimer, who at least for now had still been assuring their allegiance. Surely they would have not been so stupid as to believe the other Mer would ever regard them as anything but pariah? The Altmer, at least, reviled them even more than they did any humans. After all: even their patron saint was a Daedra Lord, and one particularly loathsome according to Elven religion!

Quintus had fallen deep into these cerebrations, forgotten for a minute where he even was. Once he focused his gaze again on the woman on the other side of the table, her brow in an anticipatory furrow, he heaved a deep sigh. He then let the General in on what had gone on inside his head.

Rikke listened to his words intently, her brow remaining wrinkled, nodding to herself every now and then. Once Quintus was finished, she gave one more conclusive nod. "Yeah, that about matches my understanding of the situation as well."

Quintus cocked a brow. "Indeed? Well, then, I don't suppose you would have an educated guess as to the next move of the Dominion?" If he was perfectly honest with himself, he could no longer tell whether he was mocking the woman or genuinely inquiring her view.

Rikke herself looked a bit like she couldn't decide, either. After a few seconds of studying Quintus with her hard gray eyes, she resignedly let her hand fall on the table in front of her. "Your guess, I'm afraid, is as good as mine."

Quintus wasn't entirely sure how to take that. Smacked of an insult, somehow.

Before he had time to prepare his next line, Rikke spoke again. "I mean, surely they would at least try to rally the provinces already broken from the Empire behind their cause? You know, like they've already done with Valenwood and Elsweyr."

Quintus smiled. "That, my friend, is much easier said than done. Lucky for us."

Rikke looked uncertain, even surprised, but Quintus could not tell whether it was caused by his use of the word "friend" or by his main message. Not interested in finding out, he went on to explain what it was that he meant. He was ever eager to elucidate things that he understood better than others.

The thing with Valenwood and Elsweyr was tricky. Not so much with Valenwood, as the land with its Bosmer population had been an integral part of the Dominion from the start. But with Elsweyr, certainly. The province of the Khajiit, as it had turned out, had been much more a loss for the Empire then it had been a victory for the Dominion. With the re-emergence of the old kingdoms of Pellitine and Anequina from the rubble heap of the shattered Confederacy, the land had also seen the resurgence of old rivalries. Though they'd both pledged allegiance to the Thalmor, they were far from getting along with each other. And, of course, there were the tribes of the northern deserts who'd only ever occasionally come together under a common chieftain.

As it stood, the Khajiit would not likely stand as one, and were even more unlikely to fight for the Dominion. Ironically, the only authority the Thalmor might have gotten to bring the odd cat-people together would have been their spiritual leader, the Mane; but, after their assassination of his previous incarnation, they were unlikely to turn him into their pawn now. Still, they'd seemed to have learned their lesson and let the present one live. It would have been pointless, as he would have simply returned, anyway!

"So, if the Thalmor assassinated the Mane, could they have done the same to the Emperor?" Rikke asked.

Quintus wagged his head dubiously. "Eh, it's possible, I suppose." Not happy about being distracted, he whisked away Rikke's interjection and went on.

The other ex-provinces, Black Marsh and Morrowind, were matters of a completely separate order. The long war between them seemed to have finally come to a close, but there was no knowing whether that would mean lasting peace or not. The Argonians trusted no one and mostly kept to themselves, so precious little was known by anyone of what was presently going on in their land. And where Morrowind was concerned, even though word was they'd finally managed to drive off the last of the invading Argonians, it seemed one could scant keep the houses of the Dunmer off each other's throats these days.

Though with the Dark Elves, at least, there were active and persistent rumors of activities by both the Dominion and the Empire seriously attempting to win their hearts over. If anything, Quintus judged, it was more realistic to suppose that the Thalmor could compel at least some of them behind their claims of elvish supremacy. But it was very difficult to picture the warming up to any imperial wooing at this point—not after the way the Empire had bailed them out during the Oblivion Crisis, and after the zero help they'd received from them since. They may have never officially seceded from the Empire, but no one in their right mind had considered them to be a part of it for a good long while. Their future was thus anything but certain. The thing was, while they might've had no affinity for the Dominion, the Empire they had come to hate with a bitter hatred. And who could have blamed them?

"But does that mean the Dominion could rally them behind them? Is the Dunmer's hatred of the Empire strong enough to override their abhorrence of the Dominion? I mean, we all know, and the Dunmer know, that they're not exactly what the Dominion has in mind when they speak of pure elvish blood. So will the Dunmer simply remain aloof of all this?" Quintus shook his head. "There's just no way of telling at this point."

Not to mention the fact that they were hardly an imposing military power these days.

"I know all that," Rikke said a bit testily. "And it's not what I was asking. You didn't give me a straight answer. I see a valid reason to suppose that the Dominion had something to do with the murder. It certainly did end up serving their purposes."

Quintus shot Rikke an annoyed glare. He did not appreciate being coaxed, not to mention having his viewpoints put into question. Rikke's stare on him, however, was unflinching. He sighed. "It is as I implied," he said curtly. "I simply could find no evidence to back that up."

It was true. The Dominion angle, however tempting it might have been, he'd soon had to drop. It had all just been a bit too . . . _convenient_ , somehow.

"What does that even—"

"Am I conducting this investigation, General, or you?"

After a second of peeved glowering, Rikke leaned back in her chair. She gestured for Quintus to continue.

After abandoning these two lines of investigation, it had left the third one, the one Quintus had then followed for a time. This third, the most pertinent scenario went that the assassination wasn't in fact hired by _anyone_ ; that the deed had simply been the Brotherhood's ultimate act of defiance against the Empire. After all, the Empire had long fought the wretched organization in order to squash it once and for all. And it _had_ wiped it out completely in Cyrodiil and elsewhere, their last and only base remaining in Skyrim. A pathetic and small stump of its own inglorious past, the gang had damn near been taken down for good; but, by some stroke of luck, they'd managed to endure and in the end to bloom all anew.

The Brotherhood's initial attempt on the Emperor's life had been by poisoning, one of them posing as the renowned chef Gourmet to get sufficiently close. But that time they'd been duped by Mede's stand-in. The failed assassin had somehow succeeded in bailing out, but soon after the Imperial troops had advanced on the Brotherhood's base, killing them all. Or so they'd thought. Then, sooner that anyone could expect, and with the Empire lulled into a false sense of security, the assassin had struck again, this time with devastating success.

Quite obviously the version where the Brotherhood had acted on their own had been the most calling one. The most convenient one, too. And in any case, it would have been much preferable to stick with that story than it had been to deal with what had come next. This, however, Quintus didn't mention out loud. In fact, at this point he closed his mouth, giving Rikke the impression that he'd given all the information he had. It was not entirely true. But anything beyond this point was strictly classified.

For in truth, what the Empire really wanted was the name of the actual killer, the one who'd personally laid waste to Titus Mede. They were not actually interested in finding out who it was that hired the Dark Brotherhood. The reason for that was that they already _knew_ it. That was the problem. They knew who it was, and they wanted to direct attention away from it.

It was dirty laundry all around.

Two weeks into Quintus' investigations, while he'd still been following the "Brotherhood acting independently" motif, a member of the High Council, one who'd gone missing around the time of the murder, resurfaced. The man had been named Amaund Motierre. He was known in the Imperial City as something of a troublemaker, been known to tirelessly tout the honor of his own family, about the massive influence they wielded, and how they'd long been enlisted as one of the most important vertebrae on the Empire's spine. Even how it should have rightly been himself ruling the whole thing, that his family line was much more prestigious than the Mede's was, and how it had only been the fact that the Motierres were Breton that had stood in their way. But what justice, he'd enquire, was there in a multiracial empire, if only the Imperials were given the right to sit on the Ruby Throne?

Most people treated this talk as it was: ridiculous swaggering and intentional baiting. No one actually took the man's clamoring terribly seriously. But the truth was that despite his questionable reputation, he did not come without influence. Certain councilmembers and other political players tended to flock behind him, for despite having his eccentricities, he was also a man of agreeable character. He was, in fact, probably the only person in the whole council who wasn't simply a yes man of the Emperor. It was even possible the Sovereign himself respected the man for this. And it certainly didn't hurt Amaund that he did come from a long-standing family of note with lots and lots of very old money behind it. If policies had shifted dramatically, he may well have ended up taking the place of the Emperor.

But that was not to be, as would soon become obvious.

Not much had been made out of Motierre's disappearance coinciding with Mede's assassination. People of power were no strangers to a spurious holiday, running off for a getaway with some floozy more often than not. Certain matters and needs simply needed taking care of, everyone acknowledged as much. But then the man had reappeared. And once the grotesquely mangled headless body found floating belly-up in Karth River was identified as the councilman himself, all hell broke loose.

Quintus nearly shuddered at the memory. He'd been among the first to examine the cadaver. Something particularly revolting about bodies pulled out of water: all swollen and often barely recognizable, parts missing, devoured by the fish and whatever other vile creatures inhabited the deeps. But it had been evident that even before Motierre had been dumped, his body had been subject to mistreatment. Seemed that many of his parts had already been missing by the time the body had been disposed of. Quintus had guessed the man had not met with an easy or agreeable death, if such a thing could even be imagined. They'd only been able to identify him by the signet ring he still wore on one of the few fingers he had left.

One detail, though hardly particularly shocking considering the whole, had been the most disquieting one. The figure of a hand—the symbol of the Dark Brotherhood as it happened—had been carved deep into the remaining skin of his back. In theory, of course, something like that could have done by anyone; but with the Emperor's blood still drying on the floor of his ship, this had hardly been a coincidence.

And that's where the problems had started. Motierre, a notorious rabble-rouser who'd been known, no matter how spuriously, to lay claim to the Emperor's seat, disappears on the same day as the Emperor is dispatched by an association of assassins, then later reappears, dead also and with the mark of that selfsame organization on his body . . . well, when that sort of thing happens, questions naturally arise. And very soon the tone and fervor of those questions upsurged. Long story short, within days from when details of Motierre's reappearance had gone to the Imperial City—and him holding back such things had obviously never been an option, even if he'd wanted to—those mentioned questions had been taken to the people known to associate with the councilman. Hard questions by this point, with some unpleasant people asking them. And, to be sure, unlikely to find answers that much pleased anyone.

And so, after a short while, a good and thorough purge had swept across the Capital and all throughout Cyrodiil. In the aftermath, a fair portion of the Imperial body experienced a sudden and complete face-change, and entire families, including that of the Motierres, found themselves either dramatically thinned in either members or influence or, as in the case of Amaund's eminent stock, irrevocably evicted from the Imperial Province. It had been something of a small miracle that they'd managed to keep secret the true reason for this. It had certainly helped that the War of Hammerfell was raging right behind the border and people were rightfully frightened of the Dominion's invasion—of slavery after centuries of relative freedom. Such had been an easy climate for spreading disinformation regarding internal power shifts.

For someone such as Quintus, then, this sort of shake-up might have even proven favorable. If only it hadn't been for the inconvenient fact that he himself had been one those people on good terms with Motierre and his ilk. Yet, as a man who always covered his bases, his casual and very noncommittal hobnobbing with the unfortunate Amaund had not in the end been judged as the insidious sort. Besides, he'd still been far too important a player at that point, too irreplaceable as the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculus, to be tried lightly. He'd suffered no dent to his reputation, and had been allowed to continue his work at Skyrim.

_And yet . . ._

Quintus could feel his mouth harden as his memory naturally took him to a few months later, to when he'd had to return to Cyrodiil empty-handed. Did not his association with the man now considered a usurper run aground end up being held against him after all? Was it not partly the reason he'd been shoved aside and pushed to the very edge of the Empire? Much to his chagrin, a satisfying answer to that stinging question had never surfaced.

Across from the Chief Inspector, General Rikke narrowed her eyes, studying the subtle change on Quintus' impassive features. "What are you thinking about?" she asked.

Irritated, Quintus sniffed at the woman, making sure to tuck any apprehension safely behind an imperious guise. "Oh, I'm only despairing under the realization that I'm just wasting more of my precious time; talking here with you about self-evident matters when instead I should be striving to unearth new information."

Rikke regarded the Chief Inspector calmly for a good while. "Is that so?"

"That's so." Quintus sighed and brandished a tired hand. "Listen: it's essentially a moot point after all this time to keep asking who ordered the murder. At this point, what the Empire needs is actually the killer. A name, a face either sketched on paper or still attached to a severed head. What the Realm is desperate for is the recouping of its esteem, its credibility in the eyes of its own subjects. How can it ever hope to garner the respect it needs if it lets its own leader be disposed of without repercussion? Weakness, General, gets no respect from anyone. And without respect, the Emperor might as well send out a letter to the Thalmor today, notifying them of his formal resignation, of the unconditional surrender of the Empire. Welcome slavery!"

Quintus slammed his palms on the tabletop and waited for his words to sink in. Rikke seemed to be mulling on them, the light of understanding visible in her eyes. In thought, she didn't immediately reply.

"Do you now understand" Quintus went on, "why this day Elisif has been reminded of what happened all those years ago? Even if she might feel perhaps a tad pestered, don't you think there's a good reason that such a thing will not be shelved off as simply something to forget?"

Finally, Rikke gave a slow nod. But only after a few seconds of appearing to search in vain for a counter-argument.

Quintus lifted his hands, spread them around his head. "Well, there you have it. The broad view, if you will." He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. "You tell me now: will I be able to trust Elisif?"

Rikke, looking surprised by the question, said, "Of course. I stand by my assessment of her. She has given no reason to—"

"Stentor," Quintus interceded. "It's _her_ I don't trust. Not one bit."

"I understand you may not like her—"

"It's obvious that I don't like her!" Quintus cut in again. "I can't imagine who _would_. That's not the problem here. I said I don't _trust_ her." He leaned back with the tiredness of a man defeated. "But it seems as though I'm stuck with her nonetheless."

Discomfort plain to read on her countenance, Rikke hesitated. "I don't think she'll be a problem."

"No?" Quintus said with a raised eyebrow.

"No. While she has her unpleasant streak—"

Quintus snorted.

"—it's not as if she's some sort of villain, either. The High Queen has in fact come to rely quite heavily on the woman's aid, especially since after Firebeard's health started to worsen. Sybille has proven to possess a very keen understanding of governance, as she does have a long experience working with rulers. She played a big part back in the day in raising Torygg, and he certainly didn't turn out too badly. And now with Elisif's son . . ."

Rikke trailed off, suddenly looking as though she'd spoken too much.

"Ah!" Quintus perked. "So it is true, then!"

Rikke cleared her throat. "Yes, well it's hardly a secret. He's stayed out of public life as much as possible, and while that understandably raises all sorts of rumors, it is the will of both Elisif and himself."

"A shy boy?" Quintus asked with a quirked smile. He felt he knew exactly why he'd been kept out of the public eye. _A little seedling of Attrebus, eh?_

"I wouldn't say so. He has certainly taken after his mother's willful nature. He's rather adventurous, and as he's gotten older, tends to cause Elisif more and more gray hair with his wanderings. Since he was very little, he insisted that Sybille teach him destruction magic, and despite Elisif's initial opposition, Jagar managed to—"

"Jagar? That's his name, Jagar?"

Rikke regarded him as if she didn't understand the question. "Yeah," she said uncertainly, "what of it?"

Of course the woman wouldn't possess Quintus' knowledge of Imperial history, how did he forget that? He concealed a smirk. _Jagar the surreptitious usurper . . . my my_. "No reason," he said. "Go on."

"Well, as I was saying, he—"

"On second thought," Quintus interrupted, "don't. None of this hardly matters."

Rikke frowned. "You—"

Quintus waved a hand. "You're telling me Elisif's loyal, I get it. And you've certainly conveyed that she's ambitious as well, as if I hadn't gathered as much already!" As Rikke merely frowned, looking to be one hop and skip away from a pout, Quintus went on. "We'll just hope that that ambition won't come to override her loyalty." He shot Rikke a hostile little smile. "And you'd better carefully consider yours. These are no times for playing dangerous games. These days, positions—as well as _heads—_ may depend upon the frailest of dreads."

Her frown more a glower now, Rikke narrowed her eyes. "What are you hinting at?"

"I'm not hinting at anything. I'm simply stating facts."

There was a subdued flame in the General's eyes. "I see," she said frigidly, then leaned back in her chair. "Well, then let me tell you—"

As if pressing after the retreating woman, Quintus himself leaned forward, waving a hand dismissively.

"Now listen—"

"No!" Rikke snapped suddenly, launching forward with a sharply jabbing finger. Quintus was forced to reel in the face of the woman's flaring anger. "Now _you_ listen to _me_ , you pompous piece of shit!"

Quintus' eyes flew wide, his mouth hanging open. In a single strike, he was rendered mute.

For a fraction of a second, something like regret flashed amidst Rikke's ire; but she then seemed to decide that now that she'd started, she couldn't back down. She nailed Quintus in place with her flaming eyes. "I've been sitting here, politely listening to you arrogantly lecture me about things I already know about, evading my questions, dropping underhanded half-accusations, all the while trying to covertly ridicule me. And fine, I can let you have your little fun; what's it to me? But do not presume to walk over me as if I were one of your apple-polishing Imperial doormats! You may well be the Emperor's representative and wield his authority, but while here, you're in _my_ house! And this house, you ought to know, is filled with _my_ people, those loyal to _me_." She dropped her voice to a lower volume, now spiked with a fat lacquer of menace. "All I need to do is to make a wish and anyone—and I mean _any_ one—will vanish without so much as a trace. You'd do well to keep that in mind."

Quintus could hardly believe his ears. His eyes remained fixed on the woman opposite to him who at a breeze had shifted from a placid if discontent walkover to a raging virago, then to imperious war chief of scantily-guised bloodthirst, and finally, her sudden blaze now flagging to a smugly content simmer, something he could not quite place a finger on.

Blinking, he scowled. "You're _threatening_ me?" he breathed.

Considerably calmer, Rikke leaned back. She gave her head a curt shake, a thin specter of a smile playing about her lips. "I'm not threatening you. I'm simply stating facts."

Quintus still could but stare dumbfounded. Yet, with the tumble of incendiary emotions churning within him, he was surprised to find little anger. Indignation, sure—up to his knees, but for some reason or other this did not translate as resentment towards Rikke, the way it most certainly would have had anyone else told him off in the same manner. Barring, perhaps, the Emperor himself.

Even more to his surprise, there was another sort of affect kindling within him. Something like . . . respect?

He did not let this show, of course, for that was not how the game was played. Instead, he adopted the most chilling tone in his arsenal, regarding the General with a detached, calculating gaze. "You do realize," he said, stressing every syllable, "that while I may indeed be 'in your house', as you so put it, once I get back to Cyrodiil, I needn't but pass a single word the Emperor's way. And with that word, _I_ can in turn magic away anyone of lesser prominence." He paused, allowing his words the time to impact. "Or, shall we say at least, whatever position they may currently occupy."

Rikke, unruffled, sniffed out a soft grunt. "That is, I believe, if you manage to return with something else to offer him besides your naturally radiant presence."

"Oh, indeed," Quintus replied, allowing for a laugh. He placed his palms flat on the table. "Be that as it may. If, and _when_ , I return to the Sovereign's favor—" Another pause to let the implications ink in. "—I am not without power. And that sort of power one is better to have on her side rather that against her."

"I've seen my share of this game," Rikke said with a slight but firm nod. "I'm willing to risk it."

Quintus gave the General a long, silent regard. His gaze was met with an unflinching and level stare. He then smacked his lips conclusively, mirroring Rikke's nod. He relaxed against the backrest of his chair with a tight-lipped little smile. "Alright, fair enough."

Rikke's eyes widened a hint, as if she wasn't quite expecting that. "Come again?"

Quintus laughed more freely. "Although you may think so, I'm not a petty man. If anything, I'd much rather deal with people with the guts to challenge me than the usual lot of courtly lily-livers. You show gall, I can respect that. It may surprise you, but that's not a given characteristic of even commanders of thousand headed armies. And besides . . ." He took a showy look around, then gave Rikke an almost amiable smile. "I'm sure you can find a way to make it up to me. Now . . . how's about some more wine?"

Rikke gave another amused sniff, but did not oppose. The chair creaked as she rose. As she was just about to sweep past Quintus and out of the room, he grabbed her arm. The General stared quizzically down at the Chief Inspector.

Quintus would not even meet her eyes as he spoke. "Better stuff . . . this time."

Rikke replied with a raised eyebrow, then shook her arm out of his grip and walked out.

 


	20. The Nightingale

 

 

 

At the end of the line, it came to Merard why he hadn't seen any other travelers on his journey. As he descended down the winding path, the dry autumn air practically balmy on his face after the sullen snowy gusts in the mountains, his eyes settled upon a fixture of fieldstone and wood looming in the near distance. The eastern gate of Helgen.

During the months falling short of a year that he'd spent in the province, he'd not set foot around these parts, nor had he before used the passage. He'd known, of course, about Helgen, how it had been abandoned by the Empire and consequently taken over by thugs. But what he hadn't grasped was what a direct line the pass cut through the mountains to the very gates of the outlaw settlement. After all he'd seen, it shouldn't perhaps have surprised him that an entire mountain pass, and in effect an entire corner of the province, could for all intents and purposes be barred from the use of the mainstream Imperial society.

So that's why the kid had been talking so oddly. He _had_ known where Merard was headed. But what did that mean? Had the boy been a decoy, then? A spy? A lone lunatic?

Within the vast but finite material universe of definite laws and calculable facts existed nothing nearly as unsettling as not knowing. It was a horror enough to drive a weaker soul out of its wits. But Merard Motierre was not a man easily shaken.

_Remember where you come from! Think about where you're_ _going!_

Merard winced at the intensity of the words surging into his mind, but nodded grimly at their unimpeachable logic.

He'd been but a boy when the voice had first come to him. Instructing him, urging him; promulgating him on his duty, the sacred mission of his life. It had been impossible at first to tell the words apart from his own thoughts, but before long their stark, unique consistency—the manner and tone distant yet recognized by him, known in some earlier time rendered nearly ancient and mythical—had made it impossible _not_ to. It was not his own voice, but it was a voice he knew.

_I will . . . father. Have faith in me!_

The voice never once replied to his attempts of reassurance. But he thought he could feel something there. Something like contentment, or in the least dissatisfaction pending.

With caution, he approached the gate. From the distance of roughly an arrowshot, he saw the guards on its slate-roofed plank battlements bristle at his advance. He settled his breath, drawing his mind to a blank. Magica ready at his hand, death ever eager to surge on anyone threatening him, there was nothing that could have harmed him.

_Nothing, that is, but failure._

"Hold up right there!" A bandit thug stared down at Merard now ten paces from the gate, a crossbow leveled at him. Two others around the one speaking had theirs at the ready as well.

Merard came to an immediate halt. He brought his hands up beside his head but said nothing.

"What business you got here?" The tone of the bandit's voice strongly implied that there was no conceivable right answer to the question it posed.

"I am here," Merard boomed, slowly and deliberately, "to see the Nightingale."

In the silence ensuing from his reply, the thugs shared looks. Then the one in the middle, the one speaking, spat down over the rope railing and flashed Merard a mouthful of blackened teeth. "Oh, are ya, now?"

Merard said nothing. His hands remained in the air. They did not quaver.

"So you're the one they said, then?" Asked another bandit, a female Orc. "If so, you're late!"

Merard nearly smiled. "I was not aware," he said with the same leisurely manner, "that there was a schedule to be followed."

The thugs shared another look; amused this time, as if they weren't quite sure how to respond.

"Look," Merard said with a deliberated touch of impatience. He lowered his hands slowly, causing a wrinkle to appear on the brow of the most hostile thug. "I'm sure we could stand here all day debating the virtues of punctuality." He gave a hollow smile. "But I'd rather not." He recognized well the scowl the bandit in the middle was giving him. The brute would have liked to shoot the petulant intruder full of holes. It was a slightly amusing, if entirely predictable reaction.

"Alright," said the Orc finally, giving a nod to someone on the ground behind her. "No sudden movements, now."

The gate's hinges groaned a protest as the double doors unhurriedly opened inwards. Behind, half a score of bandits, varying in both the degrees to which they were armed and in the levels of wariness they portrayed, welcomed the entering Merard with their weapons and their scowls pointed square at him. He examined them calmly as he rode through their ranks, trying to decide on what mask he ought to wear this time. In a way all bandits were exactly alike, but in another way one could differ from another like a healing spell differed from a fireball in the face. Therefore, picking the right approach to dealing with one should never be done offhandedly.

A huge Nord with an enormous warhammer slung over his shoulder as if it were but a child's toy stepped in the way of the horse, bringing it to a halt. The man was so damned tall he hardly needed to raise his cool gray eyes at all as they bore into Merard. "The animal stays here," the man said, his voice like an indifferent rockslide.

Merard regarded the thug impassively, then gave a conciliating nod. "Fair enough."

The enormous man grabbed the horse's reins as Merard started to unmount. The animal fidgeted at first, but calmed down as Merard gave its mane a reassuring stroke. It then allowed the bandit to lead it to an empty hitching post with a trough beside it.

The female Orc was now standing by Merard. Frowning at him, she gestured down the street. "This way, then."

"This way" walked them between the bare remains of what must have at some time or another been a thriving backwater hintertown. Today it was something a little different. What had used to be the housing had been stripped of all timber, leaving behind gray squares of masonry and a bizarre little coppice of upjutting abandoned smokestacks. A portion of the stacks had been converted into pragmatic platforms for cooking fires, and some of the ruins were utilized as fighting squares, archery ranges, or simply places for sleeping. But no signs of attempted rebuilding. Bandits had their priorities straight.

Merard gave the place a cursory sweep of the eye, falling into step beside the Orc. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her looking him up and down. She drew breath to speak. "Y'know," she said, "it ain't every bloomin' day some fellow just marches in here 'to see the Nightingale.' She enunciated the last words caricaturing Merard's earlier tone. "So you must be someone special, no?"

Merard said nothing, but turned his head to take the bandit's measure. By the attentive and alert light in her eyes of deep dark emerald, it was plain to see that this one was far cleverer than your average thug. Even if that still wasn't saying terribly much. Regardless, it seemed to make a lot of sense that a criminal of a profile as high as the Nightingale would surround himself with the brighter, more capable lot.

Then, of course, Merard thought about the man on the gate and immediately considered correcting that assessment.

The Orc frowned at his lack of reply. "You talk?"

Completing his scan of her, Merard simulated a nonchalant smile. "Me, special? Nah, just a man with a special sort of dedication." Before the bandit could probe him more, he added, "So, what of you? You're tight with the boss-man by the sound of it?"

This drew a dry chuckle from the Orc. "Well, I ain't no Bashee. But I've exchanged a word or two with the Nightingale. We get along fine."

Merard gave a perfunctory nod but made no further inquiries, as his question had been meant as a distraction rather than to sate genuine curiosity. They walked through an arch gate into a courtyard dominated by a decrepit fort no doubt once the town's keep. They stopped at the door located at the base of its tower. A tattered flag bearing an almost completely faded insignia of the Empire hung limp above the door, as though left there in mockery.

"All in all," Merard said, as if to himself "it seems the Empire couldn't have left this place in more sure hands."

The Orc regarded him for a minute in something like confusion, then snorted. "Y'know, for some strange reason I think I'll like you."

It worked, then. Merard's lips quirked to a cordial smile. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Alright, then. Don't be shy," the Orc said, gesturing at the door.

As soon as Merard turned his back to the bandit, the smile on his lips guttered away without a trace. He entered through the door and adjusted his eyes to the gloom. Deprived of the burning candles strewn all about the circular entryway, there would have been nothing about the place bespeaking tenancy. A supremely filthy carpet sprawled in the middle of the floor, the chandelier hanging above it casting a shadow like a giant black spider. The mounted heads on the wall enveloped in a thick coat of dust might have just as easily been monsters as animals. At this point, most people would turn around without a backward glance.

_Afraid of the dark, boy?_

Merard whisked away the derisive voice in his head. The Orc motioned him to follow her through a barred door to their right. It led to a stairway circling the inside of the tower. They walked down the dank steps riddled by moss. At every step the air got increasingly stale and smelled more strongly of damp stone and decomposed wood. Once down, they turned to a short hallway culminating in a rubble heap where the ceiling had caved in. The mound was all but completely covered in green fuzz. Clearly no effort had been made to restore the place after the Stormcloaks had leveled it some twenty years back.

They went through a door in the left wall of the hallway, and a large room opened to their right. A thick pillar stood in the middle of it, stretching out arms in four directions in support of the ceiling. Facing the entrance was a fireplace with a figure hulking beside it. Another Orc, male, this one, and about as huge as Merard had ever seen them. Wearing light hide armor, with an Orcish Battleaxe strapped on his back and an Ebony Greatsword hanging at his side, the beast of a bandit stood by the mouth of the hearth, his hands the size of dinner plates held up against the warmth of the fire. To the right of the Orc, sitting at a long table by the wall, was another figure, a man dressed in a black cloak with his back turned to the room, eating.

The Orc's massive head swung to receive the entrants. A frown pertaining to nothing kindly creased the ugly, scarred features. He quickly snatched his hands away from the fire, as if loathe to show any sign of weakness. He glowered at Merard with hard eyes, which softened as they swung to the female.

"Well, then," he rumbled. "What have you brought us?"

"A guest," the other Orc said, the tone of her voice like a shrug. "The one here to see you, sir." She held her eyes on the brute in front of her but addressed the latter words to the figure at the table, who gave no sign of taking notice save perhaps for the most minute of stirs.

The large bandit gave Merard a sweeping look from head to toe. He snorted, contemptuous and unimpressed. Merard said nothing to this. His countenance conveyed all the apprehension of a slate wall.

The Orc glared at him a moment longer, trying to read him. Merard could see the frustration in his eyes. There was nothing for him to grasp at.

"So . . ." said the female bandit tentatively.

"That'll be all, Dura." The giant sounded almost gentle. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," replied the female, _Dura,_ then turned on her heel and slunk out.

In the ensuing silence, while holding his gaze on the bandit, Merard, assuming he had guessed correctly, addressed the figure in the back of the room. "Well, sir, it's a pleasure to finally get to—"

"You'll speak when spoken to," growled the Orc. The softness with which he'd spoken to his fellow bandit had vanished into thin air.

Merard hooked his thumbs in the belt under the hem of his shirt, a hint of an amused smirk on his lips. "Well, now. I don't—"

"Your hands where I can see them!"

Slowly, Merard let his arms fall to his sides.

"Any weapons on you?"

With a deliberate motion, Merard lifted the shirttails to reveal a sheathed dagger in his belt. "Only this."

The Orc moved to remove the weapon, meeting with no resistance. He tucked the dagger under his own belt, then proceeded to pat Merard down. His big hands moved swiftly and with precision, probing every nook and cranny that might have conceivably hidden a weapon. Once done, he called out to the man by the table. "He's clean."

"More than can be said about you," Merard said, his nose scrunched up.

The Orc glowered. "You'd do better not to go runnin' your mouth—"

"I don't," it was Merard's turn to interrupt, "take orders from flunkies."

It was always a quasi-conscious thing at best adapting to the surroundings, choosing a mask. It was best to leave as much to intuition as possible, let his instincts take over and feel himself automatically become the right persona. His felt his mind mold according to this newest guise, and felt the satisfaction of the ugly brute taking the bait, responding exactly as Merard wanted him to.

"A tough one, huh?" the bandit growled.

Merard slanted him a look of amused contempt. "Tougher than you, I'd wager." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man at the table at last coming to his feet.

The sound the Orc made in response to Merard's goading was between a laugh and grunt. "I bend over little boys like you", he said. With his inimical smile, he looked like he was about to do just that. A flirtatious brute, this one.

Merard knew precisely what was going on. From the start, the Orc had been trying to make him angry. But anger, like all movements of the mind, was at its base a mere reaction, an automatic response to a given stimulus, another one which he wouldn't lend legitimacy to by grasping it.

Hatred, on the other hand, was different. It was deep, it was profound. It was elemental.

The man, the Nightingale, was walking towards them at his leisure, but Merard kept his eyes leveled at the bandit. The Orc stood over two heads taller than him, with tusks as large as a man's thumbs jutting up from a mandible attached to a head the size of a soup pot, and Merard had to tilt his head back a good bit in order to eye wrestle him. But the Breton would not let himself be overshadowed. He couldn't have been more a picture of self-assurance if he'd been staring down a crippled rat.

Enjoying the situation, he paused, as though considering the bandit's words. He then drew air sharply through his teeth, giving a mock grimace. "Little boys, huh?" He puffed his cheeks. "Y'know, you might wanna think twice before going around bragging about something like that."

The Orc let out a deep silent growl; in his eyes daggers and more.

"Now, now, Bashnag." The Nightingale stepped beside the Orc, laying a hand on his shoulder. In order to accomplish this he had to raise his arm considerably. "It's fair and square. The one who dishes it out ought to be able to spoon it up as well, don't you think?" He accompanied the words delivered in a warm genial baritone with a couple pats on the huge shoulder.

Bashnag. So this one must have been the _Bashee_ the other Orc had mentioned. Close to the Nightingale, on the face of it. It could prove to be a problem.

Despite that the man himself was now standing right there, Merard kept his eyes leveled at the Orc.

"So . . ." the Nightingale said expectantly, addressing Merard.

Merard broke eye contact with the bandit and switched to the chief instead. Getting his first good look at the man, he felt his insides reel slightly. It wouldn't perhaps have been right to say he felt disappointed, exactly, by what he saw, but certainly taken aback.

Perhaps a little disappointed as well.

The Nightingale stood just a little taller than Merard, a relatively squat man himself. Dressed in all black, tailored apparel of quality cloth, he cut an admittedly smart figure; but it still fell somewhat short of one with his near mythical repute. For one, he looked a good decade younger than what he must have been. Sleek sideburns tied together the close-cropped dark hair and the beard licking the line of his firm jawbone, the latter adjoining a goatee trimmed pencil thin. Set into this frame were features as even as they were unremarkable: smooth olive skin, a broad brow, watchful eyes under a pair of thick eyebrows, the curve of which was almost too neat to be the result of natural growth. Despite being humble in stature and build, there was an imposing quality to the man, and his steady bearings seemed to exude strength and tenacity. On the face of it, he came across as light on the safety side, being clothed in a simple loose silk shirt; but judging by the way the shirt billowed and bulged, it clearly hid armor underneath it. A fine velvet cape cascaded down from his shoulders, curling around the legs of his knee-high leather boots.

_An Imperial_ , Merard realized. He hadn't anticipated that. He'd always pictured a Nord, somehow. And in any case, he'd expected something a little . . . _more_.

The Nightingale's dark eyes narrowed lightly, yet retained their conviviality. "So, you say you want to work for me, thief?"

"Not just a thief", Merard replied with intentional seriousness, quickly recovering from his slight initial daze. "I can also kill". As the Orc snorted at this, Merard fixed his eyes back upon him. "I've killed me a couple bigger and tougher fellows than this one."

Bashnag lifted his chin disdainfully. "Ain't no coin worth less than words, my friend; every fella got his pockets full"

"' _My friend'_?" Merard said. "We friends now?"

"We're all friends here," the Nightingale interposed. The way he said it, the cordiality of his voice giving way to an undertone of cold sharpened steel, it was neither a statement nor a wish. It was an order.

"Aye," Merard nodded, holding the Orc's hostile gaze, "friends."

"Friends," the Orc grated, after a moment of silence.

"Shake on it?" Nightingale looked at each contestant in turn. Once again, the manner in which he spoke the words carried no characteristics of suggestion.

Merard offered his hand, which Bashnag closed into his colossal paw. He got the distinct feeling the beast could have easily crushed every one of the twenty-seven bones had he been so disposed. Naturally, he didn't let this realization show.

"Good, good," the Nightingale beamed. "That's what I like to see! We must all work together. Now," he extended his arm in a smooth, courteous gesture toward the table he'd been occupying, "shall we take a seat?"

Merard didn't move. He in turn extended his hand toward the Orc. "My dagger?"

"Uh-uh." The bandit shook his head. "You get it back when you leave."

"I will have it back _now_."

The Orc's eyes narrowed. "And whaddaya—"

"Bashnag," the Nightingale broke in pointedly, conjuring a silence. "Give the man his dagger."

Incredulous, the Orc frowned at his chief. He was met with a small but all the more imperious arching of a single eyebrow. That was enough. Doggedly, he pulled the weapon off his belt and proffered it to Merard blade first.

"Appreciate it," Merard said with exaggerated amiability, stuck the dagger back into its sheath and walked after the Nightingale.

"Please, have a seat," the man said.

Merard did as told, seating himself by the wall across from the Nightingale. Bashnag remained on his feet, positioning himself right beside his master, his wary eyes on Merard. He received no invitation to be seated from the chief.

The Nightingale motioned at the length of the table laden with food. "Can I offer you something to eat? To drink?"

Merard shook his head. "I will be fine, thank you."

"You're sure?"

Nod.

"Alright." The man reached for a bottle of wine and filled the goblet in front of him. "Now, Vekel the Man tells me good things about you."

"He'd better."

The Nightingale raised his eyes from the bottle poised over his cup and slanted a brow. "Huh. No ' _I'm glad to hear that, sir'_?"

"I leave the false modesty for others," Merard said. "Sir."

"Truly?" The Nightingale gave a laugh: a hollow sound for all its purported affability. "I like that." He sipped his wine, studying Merard over the rim of the goblet.

Merard remained silent, letting nothing show through his impassive façade. It was surprisingly easy, just sitting there. At a knife's thrust distance from the man to whose killing he'd dedicated his entire life. But he wasn't doing it now, not with the Orc standing right there. He didn't even feel the urge. He didn't feel much in the way of anything.

That was the way it was supposed to be.

"So." The Nightingale placed the cup on the table and smacked his lips. "Since you're not a man to waste time in preamble, then let's get straight to it." He adopted a more sober manner, scrutinizing Merard with penetrating eyes. "Having created myself something of a reputation as a man whose good side you'll want to be on, I suppose I needn't ask you why you've been so keen on seeing me. But the question remains: what do _I_ have to benefit from _you_?"

"I'm highly ambitious," replied Merard, forthright, "and will not stop until I've reached the top."

"Really?" The man laughed. "That may be dangerous information to let slip by."

"Yeah?"

The Nightingale gave a slow, significant nod. "After all, it will be I, ultimately, who will discontinue your upswing." He tapped the mouth of the wine bottle. "The stopper, if you will. Or do you perhaps plan to work your way up to ultimately take my place?" For all his playful teasing, the man's words came with a sharp edge.

_Your place? No, your life will do nicely_. "I know my limits," Merard said, level. "I don't presume to bite the hand that feeds me."

"No?" The Nightingale smiled. "Perhaps not. Perhaps not."

Merard decided to try to derail the exchange a bit. "So, what about this place? Helgen owned by the Guild now?"

He was surprised to hear the Orc grunt in peeved amusement. "Any thief worth his salt would know that the Guild doesn't _own_ anything!" The brand of contempt the bandit directed at Merard this time was of the unique sort that the wise hold over the ignorant.

Merard would not grant him the advantage. He shot Bashnag an irascible glare. "And any bandit would know when to—"

"I ain't no _bandit_!"

Merard involuntarily raised his brows. The Orc himself appeared surprised by his own unexpected outburst. The Nightingale, in contrast, simply sat there, his expression placidly entertained.

"Me apologies, sir," the not-a-bandit mumbled.

"Oh, by all means, Bashnag!" the Nightingale replied, well-tempered. "But since you clearly feel so strongly about this issue, why don't you be so good as to explain to our guest what you meant."

The Orc opened his mouth.

"Oh, wait," the Nightingale interrupted. "How rude of me! I didn't even catch your name." He looked at Merard expectantly.

"Merard."

"Just Merard?"

"Merard . . . Motierre." He felt his stomach knot up at revealing his family name. But he wasn't going to conceal it.

The Nightingale looked thoughtful. " _Motierre_ , eh? Hmm, why does that seem to ring a bell?"

For a while, Merard wasn't sure what was about to happen. He prepared to pounce over the table, bury his dagger in the man's throat. To Oblivion with the bodyguard.

But, ultimately, the Nightingale simply shrugged. "No matter." He pressed the tips of his fingers against his chest. "I, as I'm sure you're well aware by now, am called the Nightingale. And I've been called that for so long that I've come to consider it my name. But if you happen to have a more fitting name in mind, please, suggest away and I promise I shall consider it." He smiled: a thoroughly hollow and malevolent expression despite of what it was purported to be. "So, Bashnag. Why don't you explain to Merard here what you meant?"

Bashnag's expression was wary for a few seconds, as if he expected to be cut off again. When he finally spoke, he didn't deign to look at Merard. "The Thieves Guild does not recognize ownership as such. Everything's free for the taking, by whoever has the sufficient power to seize it. But ownership?" Keeping his eyes fixed on the tabletop, the Orc gave his head a solemn shake. "No. 'To own' implies a false sense of permanent tenure in a world thoroughly marked by impermanence."

_Then what of the Dark Brotherhood_? Merard thought grimly. _Do they claim ownership over the souls they take, or do they simply delegate the tenure straight to Sithis? Everything free for the taking by whomever with the sufficient power to seize it and all that. And is Sithis' reign also impermanent? Is there an end to the Void? Can it be breached?_

Merard roused to find the Nightingale's entertained gaze probing him. "A penny for your thoughts."

Merard shook off any trace of confoundedness and replied to the Nightingale's look with an utterly nonchalant one. "This philosophy your brain-child by any chance?"

"Mine?" The Nightingale replied, a smile accompanying his raised brows.

"I don't know," Merard said. "Smacks somehow of a later interpretation rather than an original dictum. And in any case, clearly a product of a mind more capable than your average leader or purloiners."

The Nightingale's smile widened. Something of a flattered light flashed in his eyes. He took a slow draught of wine. "You know, for some reason I already think that I'm going to like you."

Merard shrugged. "I get that a lot."

"I'm sure that you do," the Nightingale mused. It was obvious he'd no intention of answering Merard's question, but he hadn't really expected that anyway. "I _am_ actually presently in need of someone I can count on," he continued after a few moment's silence. "In this way I regard you coming to me as a happy coincidence." He hesitated. "Are you sure I can't offer you something to drink?"

"Now that I think of it." Merard perused the objects on the table, then swung his gaze to Bashnag. "Some water would be nice." There wasn't any on the table.

The Nightingale, without looking, said to the Orc, "You heard the man. Go fetch us some water."

Bashnag's brow furrowed. "Sir, I—"

"I said—" the Nightingale turned, unhurried, to give his bodyguard a loaded look. "—wa- _ter_."

Bashnag shot Merard a poisonous glare of something a little more violent than mere scorn. But, without complaints, he then nodded meekly at his boss and strode out of the room.

"So, you've got some problem with Orcs in particular, or what?" the Nightingale asked once the Bashnag was out of the room.

"Me? Nah. Just thickheaded goons."

The Nightingale gave his head a sharp shake. "Bashnag's far from thickheaded. Though, to be sure, I've little knowledge of what actually goes around within that gigantic cranium of his. But you'd do well not to sell him short. The Ghasharzol are no bunch of fools."

"If you say so."

The Nightingale's look was grave. "I say so," he said. "There aren't many whose hands I would trust my life in. But I do in his."

Not happy with this digression either, Merard decided to cut to the gist of things. "What do you need?"

The Nightingale studied him a good long while. He then gave a minute, unconcerned nod, reached out for a plate with a roast chicken on it and tore off a leg. While taking a bite of the charred-crispy bird, he dug into his pocket with his free hand. "This." He extended his arm and opened the hand. Something hard landed on a table with a faint thump, took a couple rolls, and came to a stop in front of Merard. A jewel the size of a baby's fist.

"Go on, take a look," the Nightingale urged, when Merard made no move for the object.

Without particular interest, Merard picked up the gem. It was surprisingly light, feeling nearly insubstantial in his hand. If it hadn't been for the odd weightlessness, he might have taken it for a ruby. With its rosy coloring and the faceted surface, the resemblance was striking; but it was clear that the roughly heart-shaped jewel was something else. For one, it was completely translucent. As Merard brought it up to the level of his eyes, the pink-tinted world on the other side looked in turn either larger or smaller depending on the angle at which he held it. At the moment, the Nightingale on the other side looked massive.

Lowering the stone and looking at the now normal-sized Nightingale, Merard said, "So, I take it this is a replica."

The Nightingale smiled. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to explain. Suppose you could consider this to be a part of the test."

"Do I get a point, then?"

There was no answer.

At this point, the Orc returned with a pitcher of water. A most sour expression strewn across his visage, Bashnag unceremoniously sauntered by Merard. He slammed the jug down, water splashing onto the table.

Merard looked up to give the bodyguard his friendliest smile. "Thanks, Bashee!"

Bashnag grunted, then withdrew to go stand behind his boss, crossing arms at his chest. They were like a pair of knotty tree trunks tangled together.

"It's not just a replica, however," the Nightingale said, as though actively choosing to ignore this petulant little display, "but _the_ perfect replica. Practically impossible to tell the difference between it and the original, unless your eye is trained for it. And it has been thousands of years since last anyone with such a pair of eyes has walked this terrain. Or under it."

Merard hefted the jewel in his hand. "The weight—"

"Identical."

"It doesn't look like much."

"Appearances can be deceitful." The Nightingale kept a significant pause "As you must well know."

Despite himself, Merard felt a little jolt at the Nightingale's words and manner of execution. Choosing not to engage in speculation about the possible hidden meaning there, he hardened his heart and said nothing.

"I believe you've already guessed my intention," the Nightingale said, seemingly oblivious to Merard's reaction. "Your mission will be to take that replica and replace the original jewel with it."

"Is such precaution really necessary?"

The Nightingale shrugged. "'Necessary' is a matter of taste more often than not. But there are some cages better left unrattled, if only to avoid the grating noise made by their occupants."

"So, this a dangerous individual holding the original article?"

An amused snort escaped The Nightingale. "Hardly! But then 'dangerous' is a gradient tending to twist in unforeseeable ways."

Merard was growing weary of the Cyrodiilian's deliberately cryptic way of discourse. "Alright," he said with a wave of hand. "So: who, what, where, and why?"

" _Why_?" the Nightingale asked, frowning.

Merard managed a smile. "Just a manner of speech. Where is this target?"

"You will find the target in Markarth." The Nightingale paused. "To be more specific, within the Understone Keep."

"The Jarl's palace," said Merard.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

Merard shook his head. "Not at all. So—our mark the Jarl herself?"

"Not the Jarl. Are you by any chance familiar with an individual going by the name of Calcelmo?"

"I've heard of him. A well-known Altmer scholar." Indeed probably _the_ scholar in the field of the Dwemer, the long-lost mysterious and highly advanced race of mostly subterranean Mer.

The Nightingale nodded. "That indeed he is. And, it would seem, quite the appreciator of any precious object he comes by in his excavations. "

Merard motioned the gem. "Like this one."

"Like that one. But, unlucky for him, that one has caught my fancy as well."

"What's so special about it?"

The Nightingale ignored the question. "And what I want, I get," he said with all the confidence in the world.

"Where does he keep it, then?"

The Nightingale smiled. "That, my friend, is for you to find out. But I'd wager he's hoarded it in his personal quarters located at the Dwemer Museum."

Merard nodded. "The museum. Got it."

"You're confident," said the Nightingale. "Good, I like that. But I'm afraid it won't be quite as simple as that."

"How so?"

"I have it on good report that our wizard has grown increasingly paranoid as of late, and his quarters as well as the museum at large will undoubtedly be rigged with ample safety measures. The magical sort. It may be a simple stealthy thievery won't suffice this time."

Merard shrugged, nonchalant. "I'm sure I will be able to figure out a way."

"I don't doubt that you will. I have a good feeling about you; have had it since I first saw you walk through that door."

_Except that you had your back turned at the time_ , Merard thought in passing. "I won't let you down." _Instead, I'm going to tear the heart out of your chest and squash it under my heel_." He smiled. "Sir."

The Nightingale returned a brief, tight-lipped smile. He reached out for the wine and refilled his goblet. "So. Any questions?"

"I've got two," Merard said straight off.

"By all means." The Nightingale leaned back in his chair, tipping the cup to his lips.

"How do you know all this?"

"All what?"

"What you just said. About the jewel, its origin, about what goes around with Calcelmo?"

"Ah, I see." The Nightingale inclined his head appreciatively. "A good question. And the other one?"

"If what you say indeed is true," Merard held out the jewel between three fingers, "then how did you come by this?"

The Nightingale inclined his head again. "Another solid question."

"And the answers?"

"The same one for both, in the form of a question." He smiled. "Does it matter?"

Merard stared at the warmly beaming kingpin for a good while. _Quite possibly_. "Perhaps not."

"Suffice it to say that any answers I could give you would not change a thing. As it stands, you want work, I've got work in need of doing." Another smile no doubt intended to disarm. "What else could possibly matter?"

_A good question_. Merard remained silent for another dozen heartbeats, then made a conceding gesture. "Fair enough."

"Anything else?"

Merard pretended to think about it. "None that I could think of."

"Well," the Nightingale said, coming to his feet. Merard followed suit. The chief extended his hand over the table. "Happy hunting!"

Merard suppressed a shiver as he took the man's hated hand. Its skin was cold but dry. "I shall return to you by Middas' evening."

"Two days?" said the Nightingale with unmistakably feigned surprise. "Efficiency, another trait I much appreciate!"

_I'll have that carved in your tombstone within two weeks' time_. Merard smiled. "You and I are going to get along just fine, then."

The expression on the Nightingale's face was unfathomable. "I do believe we are in full agreement on that one."

"Good," said Merard.

"Good," confirmed the Nightingale.

"We done here?" grunted Bashnag.

The Nightingale smiled, holding Merard's eye. "For now."

To his chagrin, it was Merard who first had to look away. "Aye," he muttered.

"Let's get on with it then," the Orc said, gesturing toward the exit.

"Well," the Nightingale said, still grinning. "We've both got somewhere we need to be." He offered his hand again. "Best of luck again!"

This time Merard could not stand grabbing that hand again, so he just nodded.

Bashnag shot Merard one more contemptuous glance before ushering his boss out of the room. Merard, walking after them, wondered if the beast ever left his master's side. He had, Merard realized only now: for a moment there, the Orc had left them alone. He'd had his chance, then, but hadn't taken it. Why? Did the instinct for self-preservation halt his hand? Was he afraid that he wouldn't be able to escape afterward?

No. That wasn't it. There had been wisdom in his inaction, he felt sure of it. It was merely a matter of analyzing what had taken place and the answer would become clear. He'd have time for that riding to Markarth.

Sullen, but kindling a dark sort of hope in his sclerotized soul, Merard walked after the Nightingale and his dog, his face an impassive mask. He stared at the back of the man he'd dedicated his life to hating, feeling surprisingly little of that nourishing emotion now. Despite his undeniably notable presence, Bashnag seemed to vanish entirely. At that moment, there were only two men in the word: Merard and the Nightingale.

Within a very short time, one of them would be dead.

 


	21. The Voice

It had to be said: when it came to settling one's nerves, there was simply no equivalent to auspiciously vintaged ethyl alcohol. The intolerably suffocating gloom of the ancient escape route of Pelagius the Bat-shit Kook-a-Nut, Potema the Wolf Cunt, Wulfharth the Blunderking, or whoever the hell it had been in whose honor this god-buggering extrication tunnel had been built, was presently no match for Quintus' newfound surge of bravado. Not even the presence of the Queen of Dankness walking ahead of him was having much of an effect this time around. A ghostly blue ball of light hovered above her right shoulder: the magelight she used in place of a torch to illuminate the way.

"I truly hope this is the last time I have to take this route," Quintus said.

"Most only have to come this way once," replied Stentor.

Despite his liquid safeguard, Quintus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the frozen tone of the Court Wizard's voice. Refusing to be unsettled, he shook it off. "One way out, then" he muttered, for lack of anything more apposite.

"Or in," Stentor said, almost as an afterthought. She came to a stop and turned to tug the candleholder-lever.

The panel door rumbled open. Without waiting for an invitation, Quintus brushed past the vile witch and strode down the stairs. A wave of nausea swept through him as the repugnant odor again rushed to greet him. At the bottom of the stairs, another wave nearly knocked him off his feet: this one beyond simple queasiness, feeling rather like some inimical force trying to dislocate his brain. His vision swam and sparkling spots danced in front of his eyes. He had to bow his head down and draw some deep, settling breaths.

Quintus had more to drink than he'd realized. And certainly more than he'd intended to.

Once he felt more or less regular again, he picked up his head to find Sybille standing beside him, the feigned concern sitting poorly on a face so utterly dominated by amusement. "Are you alright?" she asked, in her voice the faint quiver of glee.

"What's it to you," snapped Quintus. Collecting himself to the best of his ability, he straightened his back and marched down the passage between the columns of cells.

At the furthermost cell, the failed liberator of Skyrim, Ulfric Stormcloak, was just as they'd left him. The tatty, withered shade of a man shackled on the wall was the fleshly counterpart of an ugly repressed memory, reduced to a mere skeleton of amorphous anguish after long years of subduing. The wraith's sunken chest rose and fell only minimally, and he showed no sign of taking notice of their arrival. Sybille unlocked the barred door and stepped in first.

"Are you worried he will escape?" Quintus asked wryly as he followed the woman.

Stentor replied with nothing but a quick glance seeming to say, " _You know nothing, fool_ ".

_Insolent bitch!_

"Ulfric," said Sybille as she switched her attention to the man sagging inert. "We have returned. This is it, now. Here's your chance to impress us." In her voice, the imperious gentleness of a mother interweaved with the subtle condescension of a teacher who despised her student.

It was a good long while before Ulfric responded. Then his whole body spasmed, and suddenly his strangely alert, if entirely mad, eyes studied the two people in front of him. Same as earlier, Quintus was struck with the impression of a proud king in receipt of uninvited supplicants.

"That's it," Stentor said. "Join us here in the real world for a while."

The Stormcloak's blue eyes slowly lid to the Court Wizard. An odd spasm jerked his body, and only after a second did it occur to Quintus that it might have been a scornful grunt. When the eyes moved back to him, the shrunken features surrounding them became strangely animated. Ulfric's cracked, wilted lips twitched at first, then parted in the most unsightly of grins. Most of his teeth were missing, and those left were black as soot.

It was only through the most strenuous of efforts that Quintus managed to keep his features impassive in the face of the grating noise that escaped that mouth: like rusty nails scratching iron. At that moment, any trace of drunkenness seemed to abandon him, and he suddenly felt everything around him in disquieting lucidity. Ulfric Stormcloak was laughing. It was the most vicious sound Quintus could remember ever hearing. An uncontrollable shiver clawed at his spine.

Sybille Stentor turned to face him, smiling. "Our Ulfric has an uncanny sense of humor."

Quintus could reply with nothing but an aghast stare. Despite being unsettled, he felt scathing hatred flare inside of him.

Once the wheezing, gritting sound bearing only a distant resemblance to human laugher ceased, the prisoner's eyes were still fixed on Quintus. It was as if some unnatural source kept that terrible blue fire burning in them. The mouth opened again, but this time only a soft, foul-smelling breeze passed out through it.

Sybille, as if by a prearranged signal, took a step toward the husk of a man, cocked her head and pressed her ear close to that unsightly mouth. The Stormcloak spoke.

Stentor nodded, then turned to Quintus. "He says, ' _the one who speaks has brought you to me_ '."

Quintus frowned. What was that supposed to mean? He cleared his throat to expulse any trace of disquiet from his voice. "Yes, well, Sybille does speak. More's the pity."

Without visible reaction, Ulfric spoke again.

"' _She will provide you with what you've been searching for_ ,'" Sybille translated.

" _She_ will?" Quintus said peevishly. "Or you will?" It felt far from natural to be having a conversation with this . . . _thing_.

"' _All questions shall have their answer_ ,'" Ulfric replied through Stentor. He gave another grin.

Something once more flared within Quintus. If there was one thing he simply could not stand, it was people talking in circles, wasting his time in affected preamble. Just like that, he felt like his true self again, the trepidation shying in front of his natural arrogance. "My only questions," he said condescendingly, "pertain to the identity of the murderer of Titus II. Now, I'm told you know something of this. If so, I urge you to speak your piece and spare me any unnecessary balderdash. My time, unfortunately, is finite."

Ulric regarded him for a while, an undecipherable emotion dancing in his eyes. Then he spoke again.

"' _Your time is indeed finite. More so than you can imagine_.'" Another chuckle.

"Please," said Quintus, rolling his eyes. "Get to the point. Did you order the assassination of the Emperor?" Quintus already knew the answer to that.

Silence. "' _No_ ,'"

"Were you, then, aware of the identity of the killer at the time of your final incarceration?"

Whispers. "' _I was not_.'"

"Then," Quintus fanned out his arms, frustrated, "Why've I come? This is nothing but a waste of my time."

Ulfric studied the Chief Inspector for another full moment before he spoke again. " _'I know more than you can guess_ . . .'" He paused, then mouthed two syllables in such a disdainful manner that Quintus didn't even need Sybille's precise imitation. " _Quin-_ tus!" the Court Wizard spat, then grinned.

Quintus, once again, refused to be bullied. "What do you know, then?" he demanded.

The Stormcloak looked to be thinking. " _'I know this is your last chance. That you_ need _this_."

Quintus waved a hand. "That's a no-brainer!"

"' _You hunger for this. More than you will ever admit_.'"

Quintus rolled his eyes.

Ulfric's unnaturally blue eyes held a nasty twinkle. " _'Turns out the bottle and perversions can only go so far in satisfying a man_.'"

That one gave Quintus a brief pause. But then he guessed that Stentor had been talking to Ulfric about him. He shot the woman a livid glare, then started to think up a scornful enough reply.

Ulric seemed again to be contemplating, his eyes going dull. Then they lit up again. He whispered through curved up lips. " _'The way he looks at you_ ,'" Sybille interpreted in a slow and deliberate manner. " _'The fear and the helplessness in his young, dark eyes. That's almost like absolute power, isn't it? Only . . . not … quite_." The Stormcloak smiled in earnest.

Anger flared again. "I will not stand here listening to defamations!" Even as the words left his lips, Quintus knew they only served to make him appear weak. He cursed inside. He could have just reached out and wringed that withered neck, snapped it like a dry twig. And simultaneously, he felt another stir of emotion underneath it all. Dread.

Looking satisfied, Ulfric took as deep a breath as he was able. His eyes rolled back into his head. "' _The whispers in the wind_ ,'" he spoke through Sybille, "' _tell me all I need to know. And more_.'" He paused. The eyes rolled back down and fixed into Quintus with disconcerting intensity. " _'The storm will rise. The True Storm. It shall be my liberation_.'" Then the gaze unfocused again, and Ulfric's body was claimed by shakes which might or might not have been silent laugher.

Then he seemed to become unresponsive again, and Quintus gave Sybille a cross look. "What's this gobbledygook about storms?" He was doing his best to sweep aside the discomfort that the Stormcloak's words and those penetrating eyes had caused.

The Court Wizard considered Ulfric with a smile strewn across her thin lips. "I believe it's clear he lost his mind a long time ago."

Quintus frowned at the outlandish woman. "You seem to take pleasure in that fact."

Sybille then turned her gaze to meet his, and Quintus felt a terrible cold settle down in his stomach. "Oh, I'm sure you don't even want to know about the sorts of things I take pleasure in."

Quintus was utterly robbed of a reply, and was forced to avert the woman's gleeful and malicious scrutiny.

"It's nothing new, at any rate," she continued, facing the Stormcloak. "They say he was already obsessing about storms back in the day. Seemed to have taken a particular shine to the metaphor. Renamed himself after it and all. Would call himself the _herald of the liberating storm_ or some such nonsense. Chances are, he'd gone soft in the head already."

"You've brought me all the way here just to listen to the inchoate ravings of a madman?" Quintus hissed in frustration.

Sybille slanted him a curious sideways look. "I recommend you ask him something more."

After a long, hard stare at the Court Wizard, Quintus sniffed, nodding. "Right, then." He rounded on the Stormcloak, shucking the residue of apprehension off his shoulders. "Alright. Listen to me, you old lunatic."

"I wouldn't—" Stentor tried.

Quintus waved her silent. "I didn't travel all the way here just so you could listen to your insane jabbering about the wind and the rain and whatnot. Now, do you or do you not have anything to offer me besides the weather forecast?"

Ulfric picked his head up and eyed Quintus: curiously but without visible consternation, as if Quintus' words hadn't had any effect. Then the light in his eyes grew suddenly dim, and his head sagged. He was immobile again, without a trace of whatever had animated him.

Waiting for a few moments for any further sign of life from the defeated rebel leader and finding none, Quintus threw up his hands in chagrin.

"Told you," said Stentor. Quintus scowled at her, and she smiled. "Tried to, at any rate."

Quintus sighed, motioning at the once more inert prisoner. "What now?"

"Now?" Sybille shrugged. "We wait."

"Wait!" barked Quintus. "I've no time to—"

Suddenly, something happened to the Stormcloak. His entire body started to tremble; he arched his spine against the wall, his eyes again rolling to the back of his head. His frayed features convulsed in what appeared to be tremendous agony.

Quintus scrunched up his brow. "What's going on?"

"Beats me," said Stentor.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the seizure passed, and the prisoner sagged against his restraints. It felt as if a dreadful silence descended in the cell. Quintus thought he could hear his own heartbeats. Felt them, in any case. "What—" he started.

And was stopped short as Ulfric's head popped up with unnatural agility. The blue fire in his eyes was burning brighter than ever. Yet despite that they regarded Quintus and Sybille alertly, the eyes held an oddly vacant quality. The prisoner the opened his mouth. The Court Wizard leaned closer, but Ulfric's head jerked violently in her direction, and she withdrew.

Ulfric fixed his icy stare onto Quintus. When he spoke his mouth opened wide, permitting a view of the scarred, darkened nub of his tongue wagging ineffectively near the black gorge of his throat.

" _Aah-ooh_ - _EEH,_ " the Stormcloak pronounced in his grating voice. He kept his eyes on Quintus, who was struggling against the chills dancing along his spine.

Taking the silence as her clue, Stentor looked at the Chief Inspector. "Alduin," she said.

Quintus cocked a brow. "Alduin?"

"Alduin was the—"

Quintus waved petulantly. "I know who he was. Or was supposed to have been. I'm in no need of a lecture in mythology, thank you very much."

Alduin, the World-Eater, herald of the end times, who according to the myth was cast forward in time with the power of an Elder Scroll—or some nonsense to that effect—and whose reappearance some fools still looked for. A giant black dragon, as it happened.

Quintus thought of the rumors that circled about the attack on Helgen; how the Stormcloaks' propaganda had been milking that particular superstition with abandon. Clearly he was still entranced by his old ideological beliefs.

Ulfric spoke again, and Stentor translated, " _Alduin, he was thwarted_." Pause. " _And with that was the end of this word deferred_." Pause. Ulfric revealed the last of his blackened teeth. " _But not for long_."

Blinking, Quintus said nothing. He gritted his molars and waited.

" _The Storm_ ," Sybille interpreted the prisoner's rasping. " _The True Storm will come_."

Quintus closed his eyes. "Not this again," he groused. "Look, won't you just _shut up_ about—"

Ulfric's voice grew in fervency, cutting Quintus off. "WEH QWEEH!"

Quintus shoot Stentor an inquiring look.

" _The Queen_ ," the Court Wizard said.

"WEH QWEEH WEEH WEYEH!"

" _The Queen will rise_."

"I take it you're not talking about Elisif here?" Quintus said with all the sarcasm he could muster.

Ulfric kept speaking. "' _The Queen of Terror_ ,'" Sybille translated. " _'All will bow before her_!'"

"No," said Quintus. "Unlikely we're talking Elisif here."

"' _The Voice_ ,'" Sybille said after Ulfric's feverish, vowel-dominated speech. " _'The Voice will compel_.'" Ulric paused between every sentence, as if speaking demanded a tremendous effort on his part. Likely it did, as well. " _'The voice will command_.'" Pause. " _'The voice will CONSUME_!'"

The terrible sound of this human wreck's voice was definitely consuming _something_ inside Quintus. He swabbed cold beads off his brow and cast Ulfric the most supercilious look currently at his disposal. "And this _Queen_ ," he said, the iciness in his voice just about concealing the cold sensation that had been steadily, and quite inadvertently, growing inside him "I trust she will have some reward for you. Because you are doing her bidding, I presume?" He'd talked to enough madmen in his life to have a fairly good grasp on the structure and thematic of their delusional fantasies. He shrugged searchingly. "What would that make you? A king, I would suppose." He flashed Ulfric his slyest, most predacious grin. "The King of Skyrim, perhaps?"

His heart be damned, why was it beating so fast!

Ulfric regarded Quintus with no sign of agitation over his taunting. He cocked his head, smiling an eldritch little smile, and spoke.

"' _She will find good uses for you, as well_ ,'" Sybille translated. " _'She'll render you a more sumptuous reward than you could ever dream of. Everything you've ever wanted—and more! All you need is to carry out her will_. _Which you will_.'"

"Uh-huh," said Quintus. "And _her will_ would be . . .?"

"' _She will point you after a lead. Follow it_.'"

Quintus look around in mockery, then shrugged. "I'm not seeing it."

The Stormcloak only smiled. " _'You will get your name. A severed head if you so wish. You will have something to take to the Emperor. Precisely what he wants_.'" The ghastly grin got wider. "'And more!'"

Just then, right after he'd uttered those last zealous syllables, with that horror of a leer strewn across his abnormally animated, deathly features, all life seemed to abandon Ulfric Stormcloak. He went utterly limp, sagging against his restraints like the corpse he resembled.

For a second, Quintus wondered if the man had died, but detected then the nearly imperceptible sway of breath going in and out. He gave Stentor an inquiring look, receiving a minute, unconcerned shrug.

A few more seconds passed, and Quintus was just about to utter something, anything, to slough off the pressing silence, when Ulric again stirred. The skull appearing so enormous atop his withered stick of a neck, raised ever so slightly. The Stormcloak slanted a weak eye toward Stentor, who leaned close. Ulfric whispered.

Stentor nodded, turned to Quintus. "The Vigilants," she said.

Quintus frowned. "The Vigilants?"

"The Vigilants of Sten—"

"Yes, thank you. I'm familiar with the Vigilants of Stendarr. But what do they have to do with all of this?"

Seeming to be more or less at the end of his rope, Ulfric whispered one more thing into the Court Wizard's ear. Then his head fell again, and he remained motionless.

Sybille Stentor straightened and gave Quintus a sober look. "He said, ' _go to them'_ "."

"That's it?"

Sybille nodded.

Quintus scowled. "Damn!" he spat.

Stentor arched an eyebrow. "Seems fairly straightforward to me."

"What could I possibly benefit from going to the bloody Vigilants of Stendarr?"

"Seems like something you should find out," Stentor said blithely.

Quintus replied with his sourest scowl. _Great,_ he thought. _Just what I needed: more fanatical lunatics._

He waved his hand angrily at the passed out Stormcloak, shooting Stentor a venomous glare. "All this!" he hissed. "This has been nothing but a waste of my time!"

Stentor's eyes went wide from surprise. She opened her mouth to respond.

"The Queen!" Quintus fumed on. "What _fucking_ Queen? The man's utterly and completely out of his mind! And who can blame him." He jabbed an angry finger at Sybille. " _You_ did this to him! You … you …." _You abominable, despicable, abhorrent demon-whore from the deepest, vilest, darkest shit-furnace of the lowest, foulest depths of the Void?_ He waved his hand in frustration. "Ah! I can't even think of a bad enough appellation to pin on you!"

If this sudden outburst was upsetting the Court Wizard, she concealed it like an old hand. She tilted her head ever so slightly, smiling innocently enough of to put any little girl to shame. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Isn't this precisely what you were looking for? You've been pointed after a lead, I'd expect you to be happy."

Quintus could do nothing but stare at the beaming witch. He was entirely overcome by powerless rage, which was still a step up from a more elemental emotion lurking in the back of his mind: pure old fashioned, unadulterated helplessness. Finally, he heaved a frustrated groan accompanied by a wave of hand. "Let's get out of here! I can't even think in this gods-forsaken stench!"

"As you wish," replied Stentor.

And so they left the reeking dungeon, leaving Ulfric Stormcloak hanging lifeless in his grubby little cell. And Quintus, for one, could have cared less about the repugnant wraith. His mind was suddenly left with a lot to process. Foremost, he felt as if the bottom of his gut had fallen out and revealed that underneath was the bottomless abyss of his ultimate failure, his final defeat by the Nightingale, or whoever the hell it had been that had murdered the Emperor. He simply could not see it: how this babbling maniac of a vanquished rebel leader could possibly possess genuine beneficial information.

He'd feared this all along. And it now seemed that his qualms had proven themselves warranted.

The Vigilants of Stendarr! There simply was no bloody way that the Stormcloak would have had any significant connection with them. Fact was that the obnoxious order of religious fanatics had suffered sudden massive losses right around Ulfric's "death", and had later resurfaced somewhat transformed. It was not the same organization that it had once been, which in turn meant that no one in its current incarnation had with one hundred per cent certainly ever been in contact with Ulfric. Clearly it had all been a part of the delusional alternative reality the insane man had created for himself.

Quintus cursed himself. How could he have let himself be such a fool?

And yet . . .

He suppressed a shiver, remembering the way that the Stormcloak had looked at him when alluding to Colin…. Despite everything, at that point there had been _knowing_ in those eyes. And not the sort of knowing that comes from hearing and retaining information, from processing secondhand rumors. No, the kind of knowing Quintus was thinking about was the kind born from _seeing_ ; from looking into a man's eyes and reading into his very soul. Into the secret movements beneath his brow, the secrets and hidden desires—

_Foolishness_! Quintus shook his head. He was letting the man's obvious madness get to him. He'd need to find his bearings again. He'd need some fresh air, first and foremost, get out of this suffocating tunnel. He'd need a drink, a stiff one at that. A good, respectable vintage.

He would need Colin—

"What do you make of all this?" he heard himself say. Only a second after, did he realized that it was probably safest to engage with the outside world right now, before his mind got the better of him. For this, even Sybille would do. Besides, he couldn't totally brush off the remote chance there was something worth gleaning in the madman's twisted fancies.

Stentor turned her cowled head back, her face ensconced in darkness. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Quintus snapped tiredly. "Who else?"

He couldn't see it, but could hear the accursed sorceress' smile. "I think he likes you," she said.

"Did you know about it?" he asked, trying to ignore Sybille's mirth.

"About what?"

"Dammit woman, stop being obtuse! About the Vigilants. Did you know he would bring them up?"

Sybille stopped short. Over her shoulder, she gave the Chief Inspector a slow regard in the unnatural blue magelight. "I did not." She then turned around fully, blotting out the light altogether.

The imposing dark shape towering over him in the closed black passage filled with strangling silence chilled Quintus down to his marrow. Suddenly, he was again the trapped lamb in the clutches of a hungry wolf. He fought hard the urge to shy away from the woman, and thus reveal to her just how deeply unnerving he found her presence.

"Tell you the truth," said the shadowy figure evenly, the voice gaining in sharpness and immediacy with the hush pressing all around it, "I'm surprised you ask me of this. Me, of all people."

Quintus swallowed. "I—"

"After all," Sybille continued, "I _am_ an abhorrent . . . monster, am I not?"

A cold sweat broke on his brow, and he felt as if every drop was of the last piece of pride leaving him. But still Quintus refused to be overwhelmed. He opened his mouth to reply, and his voice came out as a hoarse half-whisper "I honestly don't know _what_ you are."

Stentor replied by letting the silence grow between them. Quintus tensed, anticipating for the witch to launch at him at any moment. To punch her hand right through his chest and rip out his still beating heart.

But that did not happen. Instead, the Court Wizard spun and continued to scale the crammed steps. "I'm only teasing you," she said, her voice profoundly amused. "You make it exceedingly easy, you know . . ." In the blue glow of the magelight, Quintus saw a flash of immaculate teeth as the sorceress looked over her shoulder. "Quin- _tus!_ " she hissed.

Quintus scowled, and it was as much a result of infuriation as it was of preconscious terror. He was out of his element here and so susceptible to the woman's little games, her gleeful manipulations. This filled him with frustrated fury. _I'm going to get you for this_ , he thought with venomous vindictiveness, _make no mistake!_ As though in reply to his thoughts, the softest sound of chuckling sounded from up ahead. _You laugh it up. While you can._

Not one second too soon, they re-emerged into Elisif's bedroom. Quintus took in a reflexive lungful of the blessedly non-stale air. The cloying pong of the High Queen's perfumes may not have in itself much appealed to his tastes, but compared to the air of mildew, blood, and excretions, it was as welcome as the breath of a vernal mountain breeze.

In silence, they walked back to the throne room, where Falk Firebeard was presently standing very close to the High Queen. The man seemed to have Elisif's attentive ear as he spoke in hushed, serious tones. Upon catching the sight of Quintus, however, Elisif sharply switched her attention to the Chief Inspector. The steward, following her eyes, pulled back as he saw him there and withdrew to his usual place at the sidelines.

"Chief Inspector," said Elisif. "Have you concluded your business with the prisoner?"

Quintus stopped at the edge of the red carpet without setting foot on it. He studied the High Queen for a moment, trying to detect derision in her deportment, found it immediately, then struggled to restrain his frown. "It would certainly seem that way," he said drily.

"And did you find out everything you wished to learn?" Elisif seemed to be beaming bounteous goodwill. Quintus thought he'd never witnessed such a toxic display of contempt in his life.

He worked his mouth. "Hardly, your Highness," he replied with a tight smile. "It appears as though I'm about to take a little trip to the countryside." He hadn't even realized he'd come upon that decision. Something about the way the High Queen looked at him that seemed to make his mind all up for him.

Elisif raised an eyebrow. "Truly? Ah, now isn't that lovely! You will find the nature at its most charming at this time of year. The colors, at places, are quite spectacular!"

_You mean the white and the gray_? "I'm sure that they are."

"Now, don't you worry," said the High Queen empathetically. "I will provide you with any assistance you may need. A suitable convoy to ensure your safety. These are, after all, dangerous times."

Quintus smiled, feeling his eyes grow hard and cold. "As are all times."

"How soon are you planning to embark? Today still?"

"No, I think not. I shall spend the remainder of the day resting. Taking it all in, so to speak." Quintus marked the High Queen with a resolute look. "I'll leave first thing in the morning."

Elisif nodded. "And I, for one, will speak with General Rikke and make sure she will make the suitable arrangements before then."

Quintus gave a gracious, and entirely vindictive, bow. "Most kind, Highness."

Elisif threw his belligerent intention right back at him, her chosen weapon a most beatific smile. "Yes," she said sweetly. "Now, I must require a period of rest as well. If there's something else you need, please don't hesitate to send the word. I can only hope our modest wares can provide for your . . . _demanding_ tastes. If not, beg forgive us humble provincials!"

At this, equipped with that lovely venomous smile of hers, she stood up, smoothed the front of her long elegant skirts, and started making her way to the chambers from whence Quintus had just emerged. Saying nothing, he gave a bow so miniscule as to be a mere nod, then, his mind full of curses and insults most odious, retreated. He rushed down the stairs, gnashing his teeth and muttering out loud some of the incendiary words weighing heavy on his mind.

"Quintus."

He stopped short at the sound of his name, looked back and saw the Court Wizard smirking down at him at the top of the winding staircase. Her long, bloodless fingers curled around the balustrade like the talons of a perched vulture. "If I don't see you again before you leave—please, do be careful." She made room for a significant stretch of silence, then added in a simple and frostily quiet tone, "It does get awfully dark out there these days."

Before Quintus could even think of a reply, the shadowy figure was gone.

Stifling one more shiver, he heaved a long, tattered sigh. His eyes flicked to the two guards standing at the bottom of the stairs, and thought he could read discomfort in their impassive faces. Or perhaps he was merely projecting.

Mumbling another curse, he swung round and stormed out into the autumnal late afternoon. The naked sunlight smarted his eyes, and he found himself with a strange yearning for the deep shades that had claimed the street in the morning. After the time spent in the dark cellar, he felt almost as if the darkness had rubbed off on him, left in him a peculiar fascination for its silent promise of horrors.

Shaking his head, he further hurried his steps. He'd need to get back indoors. He'd need a drink. He'd need to do something to the blasted dull ache about his loins, which, despite all the dread and abhorrence, had been growing, steadily and insistently.

Half running, he headed toward the Emperor's Tower, hoping not to run into anyone on his way.

Today, he would recover, recreate, and reflect.

Tomorrow, he'd travel to face more obsessed, moonstruck lunatics.

After that, who knew?

 


	22. The Stone City

Merard unmounted his exhausted steed in front of the Markarth Stables. He swung his legs over the animal, landing feet together on the hard ground. For a long while, he stared down at his boots covered by the dust of the road. With that, he emptied his mind and let the journey behind fall off his shoulders, focusing instead on the task ahead, fully and completely. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to the stone fortress that was Markarth, the capital of the Reach.

The ancient Dwemer had left some distinct marks on the province, but there was little doubt that this place was the most glaring specimen. Hewn into the steep rock face enveloping it, the city exhibited architecture unrivalled in any settled dwelling place in all of Tamriel. Its sturdy walls grew straight out of the hulking cliffs **,** as sort of reminder that whatever the Deep Elves had built was never far removed from the bedrock itself. Guarding the entrance stood a wide barbican, an immense angular citadel of intricate stonework topped with domes of bronze, equipped with two grand balconies on either side for guards armed with bows. Among the ornamental patterns engraved into the stronghold's walls were carvings of stern, bearded faces—the place's architects and original masters—looking down at those seeking entrance. Although millennia gone, they were still a nose or two ahead of everyone when it came to wielding command over the powers of nature, and all that they'd left behind them declared this loud and clear

After affording it one more healing surge of sorcery, Merard left his horse to the care of the stable hand. He paid the man a generous bit of coin to procure the beast the sort of treatment it had well deserved. He stretched the kinks out of his limbs and back as he ambled toward the barbican. A steep flight of about two dozen small stone stairs led up to it, and some half a dozen more to the tall, decorated brazen gate. Merard hadn't made his way here more than once before, as he'd found little reason to take the long trip. There just didn't seem to be a way around the utterly alien feeling that the Dwarven architecture evoked in him.

Studying the unforgiving walls as he unhurriedly climbed the stairs, Merard thought the place looked just about unbreachable. Even though it had actually faced such a fate at least twice.

The first time that he knew of had been around the time of the Great War, nigh fifty years ago. The occurrence was referred to as the Forsworn Uprising. Turned out that a group of Reach natives fittingly calling themselves the _Reachmen_ had been harboring a grudge about the then-current status of governance. This had eventually led them to take action to remedy the situation. As the Empire had had their main force tied up with the war, and as the local legionaries had been called out to join the fight, the rebels seized their opportunity. As the result of the insurrection—which had turned out relatively bloodless, as far as such affairs went—the Reachmen established a kingdom independent of Skyrim, and managed to keep and rule it for the remaining couple years that the Great War lasted.

After that, it had been the turn of the second overtaking, this one performed by one Ulfric Stormcloak, with the aid of the militia bearing his name. Approximately one year after the end of the War, Igmund, the son of the former Jarl of Markarth, had employed the Stormcloak to take back the city with the promise that, as Jarl, he would again allow the worship of Talos. This in spite of it having been banned by a stipulation of the peace contract between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. So, with this promise, Ulfric had set to the task with all the enthusiasm of a young and ambitious warlord and a budding insurgent in his own right. Rumored to have employed the power of his _Thu'um_ , a unique sort of vocal magic supposedly originating with the legendary Dragons of yore, Ulfric had overpowered the Reachmen and taken back the city in an unerringly sanguinary manner, presenting a stark contrast to what his opposition had shown.

Once the surviving fighting men had managed to flee the city, the remaining captured womenfolk had been put to torture. To gain information about the whereabouts of the men, ostensibly, but—having observed from afar the mentality of soldiers in similar situations—Merard had his suspicions as to the true main motivations behind such an undertaking. The civil folk were butchered, men and women all, the young as well as the old, including every child with enough years to hoist a sword. Anyone who'd not possessed the foresight of siding with the Stormcloak. And scarcely had the last blood in the tributaries piercing the city run into the Karth River before the city had been resettled.

Yeah, Ulfric had been a man of honor, alright. A true hero. Although, to give credit where it was due, as far as heroes went, he wasn't any worse than the rest of them.

And now he was dead.

Merard walked past the guards standing at the foot of the shorter flight of stairs without more than a glance. Though giving him no trouble, they did spare him a bit of the chary eye. Perhaps this was due to him being a Breton. Like the Reachmen.

The Reachmen had never gone away, of course, and were today known as the Forsworn, a gang of feral, bone-and-fur clad savages haunting the hills and the coves of the hold, looting and pillaging with abandon, keeping the entire region in the clutches of terror. It had gotten worse over the years, too, having gotten to the point that anyone who didn't absolutely have to would not dare the roads without an escort of armed sentries. Of course, one could say as much about the entire Province. But, in any case, it didn't appear as though the Empire had much interest in bringing the Forsworn under subjugation. Or, in other words, dragging them down from their hillforts and decapitating them to the last man and woman, as was the grand, time-tested way all realms dealt with insubordination.

Normally, Merard spared such things little thought. But there was something compelling about the character of Madanach, the man who ruled the Forsworn. He had fascinated Merard ever since, as a young boy, he'd read the book _The King in Rags: a Biography_ by Arrianus Arius, presenting a half-documentary, half-speculative account of the man's life. Next to nothing was known about the early chapters of the man's existence, about the times before his becoming the king of the Reachmen. Yet, with the aid of a few scraps of anecdotal accounts and a whole lot of educated guesswork, the book managed to paint a compelling picture of a failed military leader from Evermore, High Rock, who'd, after losing the holding for his family estate and so suffering a severe loss of face, wound up in Skyrim a broken man trying to drown himself in the bottle. Then, by unknown routes that Arius refuses to deal with only through speculation, the wretch had ended up befriending and shortly becoming the leader of a small group of disenfranchised Bretons, who, believe themselves as they did to be the rightful rulers of the land, had for decades harbored otiose little fantasies about performing a coup to take over the province.

Then, inspired by his personal desperation of reformed honor and rooted in his extensive knowledge of military strategy and the ways of leadership, Madanach had in a considerably short time managed to turn the motley group of desperate and ineffectual daydreamers into a viable force for revolt. No doubt the Great War had been the only thing separating their successful if brief uprising from an interminable bitter pity-party; but even though they'd been handed relatively easy access to the hold's capital, Arius, an accomplished and seasoned scholar of military history, didn't miss any opportunity to extol either the merits of Madanach's strategic competence or his personal charisma and his superb aptitude in rallying people under his flag. And, Arius continued, the fact that the brief period of his rule was remembered as a just one, seemed to imply that the man may not have turned out to be such a brutal partisan had he been granted the chance to rule by right. Yet another example, then, how Ulfric Stormcloak and his actions had managed to add nothing but misery and violence to the province.

The last bit, of course, wasn't an argument of Arius, but a conclusion reached by Merard.

But it wasn't really Arius' depiction of Madanach's personal history or strategic prowess that had so entranced him. Rather, it was the bits touching Madanach's initiation into the strange, ancient magics which he supposedly discovered during his "lost years" that had captured Merard's imagination. Everyone knew that the Reachmen were devoted practices of the arts, and were said to command forces even the mages of the Imperial colleges were ignorant of. Furthermore, they were said in defiance to the official Imperial religion and the Merish pantheon to worship mysterious entities they referred to as the _Old Gods_. Arius' book speculated about the nature of these gods, but never reached any sort of conclusion about what they were. It was content in formulating that the Reachmen more than likely practice an eclectic and syncretistic sort of religion, and that for them the main gist is the magic that they wield, putting less emphasis on what force or entity from which it derives its origin.

Needless to say, Merard had found the scholar's noncommittal stance, akin to an intellectual shrug, deeply dissatisfactory. But neither had he managed to find any other reliable source that would have shed any light on the riddle, on the true nature of the gods and the magic of the Reachmen. He'd once made the mistake of turning to Alabistair Adrognese—the man who had later become his master and teacher—on the matter, and received a thrashing so severe that he would never forget it—for better or for worse.

In any case, he'd not brought the matter up again.

It was a mystery, plain and simple, and Merard had ever hated those. Particularly when they refused to find their answers.

So then, after Ulfric had quelled the rebellion, Madanach was locked behind bars. It was yet another conundrum as to why they'd not simply executed the man, and instead kept him incarcerated within the Cidhna Mine for the ensuing two decades. To this riddle Arius' book couldn't even offer an educated guess. But whatever the reason behind it, it had ultimately proved an unwise decision on the part of his imprisoners. For just a short while after the end of the Civil War and the death of the Stormcloak, the King in Rags had broken free, presumably with the help of some more-capable-than-average fresh devotee to his cause. In a commotion claiming the lives of some dozen members of the city guard and roughly the same number of escaping Forsworn inmates, Madanach had fled the city to once more join his brethren on the mountains. He'd been at large ever since, once again the King of his people. A king of pillagers and ravagers, that was.

But, in any case, the Forsworn, while effectively keeping the whole hold in terror, had made no further attempt at a new takeover. Madanach was doubtless realistic enough to realize they wouldn't be able to pull it off a second time. Their best bet was to stay where they were, stick to the guerilla approach they'd perfected. Even if their original cause had ground to a standstill. Might it still resurface? That would remain to be seen.

The matter of Madanach and the Forsworn slipped right off Merard's mind once he'd walked through the gate. His field of perception was flooded with Markarth's unique troposphere. The darkening city carried the smell of mist and wet stone, topped with wood smoke and a hint of frying food. Built in tiers onto the steep rock face, its sections connected by bridges and walkways, it was a city growing vertically. A narrow street split by one of the two rivers wound up from the gate toward the Understone Keep crowning the city. The rivulet owed its origin to a mass of water cascading down from the mountain and onto the palace itself. Filtered through a dam on the roof and encultured into an elaborate fountain by the entrance, it trickled, much tamed, down the city, ran to the left from between the gate and the enormous crag splitting the city, terminating where the other, wider river—similarly originating in a waterfall—pooled, finally passing through a grate in the city gate to become the Karth River. All over the city hung the mist from the descending waters, and their roaring underlay the noises of the crowds of people around.

The streets were slowly emptying of vendors and honorable citizens, their place to be taken by the crowd of the night: the drunkards, the street urchins, and, assumably, the whores. Not to forget the beggars. The latter, as it turned out, picked neither time nor place, and the first one accosted Merard as soon as he'd set his foot in the city. An utterly filthy Redguard, this one, who in place of his missing right leg had a crude stick of wood for a stilt. For additional support, the man had a broom propped under his arm for a makeshift crutch. A veteran, like so many of them.

The man wasn't at all aggressive in his beseeching, and Merard had no difficulty shouldering his way past. But he couldn't help a wave of disgust, even after he'd crudely put the wretch behind his back. There was something about beggars that revolted him to no end. The utter humility. The weakness. The lack of backbone to admit when your life was over, and that there was nothing you could do to change that, to make yourself again count for something. The mental fortitude to reach that conclusion and to end it all. To bring your valueless existence to a respectable close.

Meekness was altogether the most disgusting feature in a man, diametrically opposed to his highest qualities. Seeing it always evoked a profound, primitive reaction in Merard. A strange kind of aggression. A predatorily instinct to do for that human refuse what he didn't have the heart or the brain to do for himself.

Why did weakness provoke aggression rather than empathy? That he didn't know. But so it did.

The Redguard beggars in particular had actually grown to be quite the nuisance around here over the years. This was because of the hordes of refugees from Hammerfell who'd been granted a permit to camp outside the city. And while some of them worked for a meager living in the iron mine outside the city—and some even in Cidhna Mine, among the convicts—many more tried scraping by begging the non-too-friendly locals for crumbs. Merard thought that, in addition, the Jarl's office must have allotted them some provisions, just to keep most of them alive. Barely. Merard had observed the host of the encampments arriving to the city: the ragged children, the emaciated women, the hollow eyed men. A miserable lot, to say the least.

There had been some controversy about this, obviously. As had there been about the Jarl herself. Many claimed that she had no place to be running the Reach in the first place. But Merard had no interest in such affairs, so he didn't know anything more about it. Nor did he want to.

Once again clearing his mind of the inconsequential, Merard walked over a stone-and-plank platform crossing the rivulet. Carved into the big crag halving the city was the Silver-Blood Inn. This was where he needed to begin his quest. He stopped for a second at the door and closed his eyes. Two breaths, and he caught just the minutest of glimpses of the hallowed Light. That was enough.

He opened his eyes and walked in.

* * *

Shadya dropped from the top of the wall surrounding Markarth. The thing with cities was that they without exception needed these damnable things around themselves for protection. Needless to say, they served to keep you _in_ almost as well as they served to keep you out. Those who detested all things wild, who feared freedom, were always eager to build cages for themselves. It was as true today at it had been some thousands of years back.

Now, the Dwemer seemed to have been a particularly nasty bunch of cage-builders, and Shadya for one was glad that they were no more. Metal, machines, cold stone—those seemed to be all that they'd stood for. Mostly holed up deep in their caverns where the light of sun couldn't reach, surrounding themselves with dead things, the Dwarves had set the standard for turning dourness into a virtue: a quality faithfully aped by many who'd come after them. And such a shining example of civilization they'd been. Shunning everything truly beautiful and living in favor of the mechanical and artificial, enslaving other lifeforms in their endless hunger for domination and control. These were the people considered to have been the most advanced race in known history.

Showed what "advancement" added up to.

Having successfully avoided any curious eye on her way, Shadya gracefully landed on the city side of the wall. Entering through the gate had obviously been out of the question. The people of Markarth were not accepting of outsiders at best, and, knowing how her kind was shunned even in the most broad-minded quarters of Skyrim, Shadya couldn't feel at ease without the hooded cloak she wore, covering her from head to toe and concealing her race from curious eyes. She couldn't feel at ease _with_ it, but she would make do.

She ruffled her bristling fur underneath the cape, the ample moisture in the air seeping through the heavy cloth. Shadya was no friend of humidity. She regarded the mass of water roaring down the mountainside beside her with profound distaste. Especially here, on the side of town named the Dockside where all the waters met, the air was heavy with fog from the cascades. The noise, alongside with the descending dusk, was welcome, though. Not that she'd any trouble moving silently, but she felt a lot less nervous not having to take special care muffling her steps.

Her tail tucked uncomfortably under the cloak and her face covered, moving along the eastern wall, Shadya hurried past the giant bluff of stone dividing the city and entered the Dryside. Keeping her eyes downcast, she nearly ran into a Redguard beggar. The man was grumbling angrily to himself, for some reason vehemently cursing Bretons, "the supercilious sons of whores". Seeing as he was distracted, Shadya got to steal by him unhindered. She proceeded to the city's north-western corner, where she started climbing up the stone stairs leading to the higher tiers.

The Redguard, as it happened, were presently the best represented non-Nord race in the city. This was due to the mass of refugees from Hammerfell, who'd been allowed to make their camp right outside the city. As far as Shadya understood, and as far as could be expected, the locals were not terribly pleased with this. But it had been a specific pronouncement of the Jarl, and for now, at least, her decision stood. Still, it was hardly that surprising a ruling, Shadya thought, seeing that the Jarl herself was a Redguard.

That in itself had served to provide a debacle of its own. A couple years ago, Jarl Igmund who'd ruled over Markarth for over four decades but had not in that time produced a natural heir, had died. According to the story, he had on his deathbed produced a writ naming as his successor his faithful housecarl Faleen—the one person in his life, apparently, whom he trusted. And she happened to be a Redguard. This had sent the old and esteemed local families into a state of outrage. A non-Nord to be the Jarl of a Skyrim Hold! What an unprecedented slight!

Without delay, then, they'd devised a formal letter of grievance to send to the High Queen Elisif, demanding her to rebuke Igmund's will nearing political heresy. The High Queen had returned them a coolly disdainful letter of her own, stating that she saw no reason to go against Igmund's wishes and to oppose his chosen heir. Furthermore, if Skyrim truly fancied itself a home for all peoples and races, why should its governing positions be open only to the Nords? There were certainly no laws declaring so—and even if there were, laws could always be rewritten.

As might be imagined, this response had met the most dissatisfied welcome. The families had immediately sent back another missive of complaint, this one arguing for the High Queen to revoke what they deemed an unjust verdict. Elisif hadn't even bothered to answer to that one. Instead, a convoy of heavily armed Imperial legionaries had arrived at Markarth few days later. To congratulate the new Jarl, ostensibly, but conveying a clear underlying message: the families did not rule the Reach, the Emperor of Tamriel did. And, in the Sovereign's absence, Elisif _was_ the Emperor. Defy her will at your peril.

So, grudgingly, the families had yielded, although solemnly declaring that the people of Markarth would never accept such a thing. Well, as it turned out, they had. In fact, the people at large did not appear to care much one way or another who ruled over them, so long as they weren't themselves any worse for it. Furthermore, Faleen was widely known and respected by the general populace; everyone had known her reputation for valor, and her undying loyalty to Igmund. The fact that she wasn't Nord hadn't even come to play a role in their judgement of her. As far as Markarth was considered, Jarl Faleen was one of them.

Now, normally Shadya couldn't care a lick about the dramas of mannish politics. And while she was by no means a friend of bullying, there was something about the elegantly contemptuous manner in which the High Queen had put the families in their place that tickled her. In truth, she suspected that Elisif might be one of those rare people she'd actually like should they ever meet. Not that such a thing seemed likely.

She scaled several flights of stairs, finally to arrive at the topmost level. In the furthest reach, secluded from the other dwellings by an individual stairway, was her destination. She'd studied the details of the city well during her earlier thieving excursions, and unless things had changed over the past weeks, knew this address to be safe. Picking the lock without difficulty, she carefully cracked the door and peered in. Empty, just as she remembered it. Stealing one more look over her shoulder—the breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains, covered in an unpleasant yet picturesque gauze of mist, slowly enveloped by the dusk—she slunk in.

After the door was shut behind her, the weak wisps of moonlight squeezing through its cracks could not penetrate the total darkness inside. Even with her feline night vision, Shadya had to fish a candle out of her satchel to light her way. She proceeded with care. A long hallway led up into a large room, the dining hall. A recess in front of a large fireplace with tables and chairs to the right and, on the left, a long dining table and shelves, and two doors to further rooms. No sign of life, only the deserted hum of silence. The furniture hidden under cloth covered by dust cast long shadows in the fluttering candlelight.

She strode on, the soft tap of her bare paws engendering a hushed echo which she could only detect on account of her super-heightened senses. She didn't bother to look around; she'd used this place during her earlier visits, and knew there was nothing left worth stealing. In the right-hand side of the farthest compartment was door leading to the bedchamber. The double bed had no covering on it, and no sheets. Shadya peeled off a corner of the cloth shrouding the nightstand and set the candle down. Then she curled down on the bed, to get some rest after her long run. She briefly considered making a fire in one of the hearths, but that would mean she'd have to go and find firewood. Plus, the less chance she gave to anyone of discovering her squatting there, the better.

So instead she closed her eyes. The Skooma she'd taken before setting out was still running warm in her veins. She focused on the tender, fuzzy feeling the substance gave her, and immediately felt her tired body relax. The feeling of chill from all the humidity slowly dissolved.

Skooma remained one of the most misunderstood aspects of the Khajiit. Most still seemed to believe the tired old myth that the drug sent them into a state of frenzy. This skewed idea had originated in observing certain pitiable individuals whose consumption had gone way beyond the boundaries of moderation, and then regrettably popularized by the misinformed authors of the _Pocket Guide to the Empire_. The idea of Skooma as an uncontrollable, insanity causing drug couldn't have been farther from the truth. In normal circumstances, a Khajiit was in perfect control of herself under Skooma. If anything, it enforced and supported her higher faculties.

Now, generally speaking, how one consumed the substance did alter its effect slightly. Smoking it tended to produce a stronger effect—for better or for worse—and could cause hallucinations and such, especially taken in larger doses. But Shadya, for one, had always favored the liquid form, and hadn't experienced any problems from it in her life. Rather, she'd always found the drug enlivening above else. True, when overused, one tended to lose control over it. An addict, a "sugar tooth", lost her natural ability to regulate the substance in her bloodstream, as was the innate capability of Khajiit, and in due course, Skooma gave reign to Sheggorath over her mind. As the old saying went: "there is nothing as mad as a cat whom Skooma lordeth over", though it sounded much better in the original archaic Ta'agra.

It was also true that other races fared considerably worse with the drug. But neither of these things justified the wrongheaded ideas people maintained of the Khajiit.

Her eyes still closed, Shadya connected with her enhanced sense of the space around her. She could feel it as either inconceivably vast—extending to infinity—or as crushingly constricted—closing in all around her—entirely dependent on from which standpoint she chose to regard it. But whatever the perspective, two qualities persisted over all: the darkness, both physical and spiritual, and the utter lifelessness of bedrock surrounding her layer by crushing layer.

As much as she might have loathed the Dwemer, and no matter how loathsome she sensed their presence to be even across the immense stretch of time between them and herself, she had to admit there was something very enticing about their story. As far as anyone knew, the Deep Elves had ventured to excavate an immensely powerful artifact named the Heart of Lorkhan—the actual heart, they said, of Lorkhan, the trickster god who'd created Mundus, and which the other gods had torn out of his chest in retribution for this treachery— buried deep within the Red Mountain in Morrowind, and then manipulate it by magic in order to turn their race immortal. As a result, they had all vanished without a trace.

Did this mean they had succeeded and turned into gods in some other realm? Or did the spell go wrong and annihilate them altogether? Did some other god perhaps intervene and destroy them? Apostatize them? There simply were no answers to those questions. Only the cities and forts that the Dwemer had built remained. And deep within their ruins were the guardians, the automatons constructed for their protection still functioning after thousands of years, safeguarding the dead places, eager to include your corpse in the lifeless halls should you stray too deep.

Where did the Dwemer really go? How was it that their unholy creation still functioned? There was no way to know.

It was a mystery, plain and simple, and Shadya had ever loved those. Particularly when they weren't supposed to have an answer.

_What, are you planning to find those answers yourself?_ sneered a voice in her head, as clear as though someone had whispered in her ear.

With a twinge of anxiety, she opened her eyes. In the dancing candlelight, her own shadow was cast across the opposite wall, as unsteady in aspect as she suddenly felt inside. Her imagination was starting to run wild again. She'd need a couple of minutes of being freed of all thought, she decided. With Skooma, such a thing could be accomplished.

Shadya turned to blow out the flame, and then fell back down, her eyes open in the remaining complete blackness. Lying there in the dark, surrounded by tons and tons of cold stone, it occurred to her for a second to wonder what the hell it was she thought she was doing there. But only for a second.

* * *

The Inn was getting busy already. With the gathering dark, the locals were seeking shelter from the cold dead stone around them by shutting themselves inside the dead stone and getting dead-stone drunk. So far, however, the atmosphere remained civil. Somewhere over a dozen patrons crowded the tables strewn around the large taproom, a handful remaining around the central bar. Most of them were probably familiar with each other, yet no one appeared to pay any attention to the entering stranger.

With the proliferation of locals engaging in their favored pastime, it was possible to entirely forget the austere race after whose image this place was built. The Dwemer seemed an abstemious race if there ever had been one. And while Merard saw no true virtue in intoxication, completely abstaining from it tended to cast a suspicious light upon the abstinent individual in his eyes, unless motivated by a spiritual principle. He himself, despite his dedication to keeping a clear mind, would still go for a glass or two now and then. Like now, for example.

Acting as natural as he could, he took a seat by the square, U-shaped bar, and waved the keeper hither. He bought some food and drink, a room for the night, plus a bath. "A _hot_ bath," he emphasized as the man was retreating, receiving a comprehending nod.

He then contented himself with staring at the bar counter, trying to collect his thoughts. The futility of the effort soon became evident, for the content of his mind was currently a jumbled muddle. The tiredness was getting to him, not only because of the long and strenuous ride but because of the intellectual wrestle he'd engaged in during it. He couldn't order the stream of judgements and sentiments springing forth from the depth of his brain, so he focused his attention into a small ball in front of his field of vision—or, in other words, stared at the table in front of him—and let the whole mess fall away from his mind in favor of a sustained attention on his basest functions.

At that point, the Innkeep brought him his order—he'd ordered whatever they had ready—and so he turned his attention to it instead. As he ate, he fully focused on his repast: peppered Silverside Perch filet with fried potatoes, a bottle of strong ale, and a hot cup of spiced wine. It all tasted excellent. He allowed himself a moment of indulgence, simply enjoying the coarse sense perceptions. Letting everything else level out into the background, he focused on the sweet and spicy flavor of the fish, on its texture between his teeth and on his tongue, the bitterness of the ale and sweetness of the wine.

Alabistair Adrognese, the man who taught him all he knew about magic, had also taught him all about adjusting his attention, about controlling all the impulses that made up the ordinary overall personality of the so-called "individual". In short, completely keeping a handle over his mind. Without such an ability, of course, true magic became simply impossible. So many went about the arts with a poorly trained mind, and the only thing to result of that was a mess. At best, an unruly mind wielding magic could accomplish poor mundane and trifling goals, but in due course, such a mind became an enemy of itself. It was no coincidence that so many mages ended up losing their sanity before long, why so few of them ever lived to see old age. " _An untrained mind is the most dangerous thing you could ever possess_ ," as Adrognese was fond of saying.

Another useful feature of such a malleable mind, of course, was that it made it possible to—

"Hey there, stranger!"

Merard started. Deep in thought, he'd not noticed the woman creep up by his side. He blinked dumbly at the arrival: a young Redguard in her early twenties or younger, dressed in a too-snug twill bodice affording a generous view of cleavage. Her heavily painted face was screwed into a coquettish leer, the line of her bright red lips a little too tight to be genuine. A thicker layer of powder had been dabbed on the scar running down the length of her left cheek. She smelt heavily of perfume with an undercurrent of liquor, and possibly Skooma.

"Heard you're getting a bath," the woman said in her profoundly affected throaty speech. Her eyes, dull and glazed beyond their frisky twinkle, quickly scanned him up and down. "Looks like just the thing you need." Her hollow smile widened. "Now, you also need a . . . _hand_ in washing up?"

Merard felt an involuntary stir. He realized that he was tempted to assent. He was still human, after all, with the regular urges intact. Even if he did normally keep them well under control.

_Why not?_ he thought in a sudden bout of enticement. There was nothing important he needed to be doing tonight. He had the whole evening to relax, some coin in his pocket . . .

Merard gave the woman—or _girl_ —a careful scrutiny. At that, he decided against his initial impulse. She was lovely, sure—in a painted-on, desperate sort of way. It was just she was . . . _missing_ something.

_What's wrong with you? Just look at her. Look at those curves! Seems she could use a good pounding!_

Quite unexpectedly, then, a sudden realization dawned on him. It had nothing to do with the whore, however. Rather, it was about the question that had plagued him ever since he'd left Helgen. When he'd had the chance, the few minutes he'd been alone with the Nightingale, why had he not struck? He realized now, in this sudden rush of understanding, that while he'd not actually felt it, there had been an undeniable ward about the Nightingale. Thinking back now, there was no mistaking it. It had been _strong_ , too.

Much the same way as with the strange boy he'd met at the pass, an odd sort of magic had been afoot, the signature of which that he'd not been able to register. This alarmed him to no end. And yet, even though he'd inexplicably not been consciously aware of the ward, something in him had. It was as if a subconscious, wordless voice had been warning him, staying his hand. And a good thing, too.

He felt a cold jab inside him, thinking what might have happened had he taken his "chance". Likely the Nightingale was more powerful that he let on. Merard might have been killed on the spot. Or captured. Same thing, really. To fail at his great goal would be a fate worse than death.

The Redguard's brow furrowed at Merard's silence. "Khajiit stole your tongue?"

Merard stirred from his thoughts. Any allure the girl may have evoked in him had vanished into thin air. He assumed an apologetic smile. "Sorry, love," he said with his best empathetic voice, "But not this time. I've had a long journey."

The woman, undiscouraged, leaned forward. This close up, Merard could definitely smell the cloying odor of Skooma on her breath. "A long ride? Well, ain't nothing better after a long ride than a good, long . . . _ride_." She winked, running a hand down his arm, her fingers probing at his muscles. Leaning closer still, she whispered, "Don't worry, you'd get to be the mount this time."

_Now_ that _was incredibly cheesy! If only for that, I think you owe her some hard—_

"Sorry," Merard said, pushing the girl back with a firm, gentle hand. The umber skin was soft about her bosom. "But I'm a man of commitment."

"I don't see the amulet of Mara round your neck," the Redguard replied. She narrowed her eyes, cocking her head back to give him a chary regard. "Are you sure you don't just prefer, the . . . coarser kind?" She then pursed her lips to a mock pout "Unless there's something wrong with me . . ."

For all his training and soundness of mind, Merard found himself bereft of a proper response. "I, uh—"

"Leave the man alone, Rhienna," interfered the Innkeep testily. "If he don't want it then he don't want it."

The whore raised her hands, palms facing forward. "Fine," she said, brusque. "Wouldn't want your dinky little cock in me, anyhow." At that, she stormed away from the bar, her tetchy stomp soon switching to a smooth little sway as she approached the next potential mark.

Merard looked at the Innkeep standing there with a glass and a rag in his hands. The rugged man simply shrugged with a grunt, raised his brows as to say " _what can you do?_ ", and went about his business.

Once again alone, Merard switched his attention back to his food. He felt oddly awkward after all that, and couldn't really enjoy the remainder of his meal. It tasted flat, the flavor of a world of false promises. So he quickly finished and got up, then went to see if they were done drawing his bath.

* * *

The city was dark by now. From up the higher tier where Shadya stood, the angular architecture of the city of stone claimed by shadows was an eerie spectacle. Her instincts kept alerting as she regarded the deep glooms within the many folds and apertures of the surrounding jagged rock faces, but the Skooma helped her mind to remain at ease. Perhaps it was the duplicate nature of the Khajiit—the beast aspect running on instinct, and the higher rational side—that had originally got them to refine Moon Sugar into Skooma. Something to help them mediate the discrepancies.

She traced her wary gaze up the tall crag in the middle of the city, up to the guard tower dominating the cityscape. Though garbed in her concealing cape, the surreptitious nature of her mission together with the dark of the night made Shadya doubly wary of being spotted. Chances were, if someone discovered her race, she'd be thrown out of the city. Or worse. It was certainly within the right of any guard to demand she reveal herself if they so deemed necessary. And as to what happened to a Khajiit . . . well, they simply _had_ no rights. Furthermore, judging by the way men tended to look at her, she knew she was likely to have to defend her physical integrity in such a situation. That might mean killing. And this was neither the time nor the place.

She peered over the railing to the lower tier. A couple of obviously drunken Nord men passed, laughing harshly, with a woman in tow between them. A Redguard prostitute. They ushered her possessively, like a lamb to the slaughter. Shadya scowled to herself at the sight. Her paws suddenly itched.

Controlling her impulses, she waited for the party to pass. Once they we gone, the way was empty behind them. Shadya grabbed the railing to fling herself over, landed soundlessly on the lower level. Casting about, she scurried over a platform connecting the northern side to the middle crag and proceeded on the trail toward the Jarl's palace. There was a guard coming. Without delay, she slowed her pace and continued as ordinarily as she could. She felt her breathing grow intense, her heart pick up pace.

_Easy now_. There was only one of them, and no one else around. Come trouble, she'd be able to handle herself fine, as long as she was quick. But then, when _wasn't_ she?

The guard, however, simply passed her without more than the minutest glance. And once he'd vanished from sight, Shadya allowed herself to breathe again. She closed her eyes and reached within to dispense another surge of Skooma. Her body immediately calmed down. As she opened her eyes, the dark city around her had gained in sharpness and detail.

She stopped just at the foot of the long flight of stairs of Understone Keep, peered up at the massive building. It look just like some ancient temple, its ornate granite walls bearing the unnerving reminder of the place's builders: carvings of bearded stone men in battle helmets; stern and unwelcoming faces brooding down at anyone seeking entrance. Beside the entrance, a waterfall split in two roared down the palace side and carried on, a rivulet slithering through the city: the beginnings of Karth River. The place's size alone, but also the subtle yet imposing mastery over its unforgiving material, was no doubt meant to evoke awe. And it did.

Undeniably, it was an impressive sight. And Shadya hated it.

She sighed heavily. _What am I doing here_? The thought was as spontaneous as it was unexpected, and she couldn't be sure whether she meant Markarth, Skyrim, or Nirn in general. And in any of those cases, she didn't have a clear answer. What was _anyone_ doing here? Was there any rhyme or reason to any of this? Was it all truly because of the trickery of some mischievous—or possibly insane—deity? Was this all some sort of cosmic joke? 'Cause it certainly felt it.

Smiling to herself, Shadya gave her head a soft shake. Tiredness was twisting her mind toward the pathetic, and the Skooma was giving it a boost. This tended to happen. She'd need to get more rest. She'd need to—

" _I'd advise you, Shadya of Da'kheavek, to keep those eyes open—to look not only where you're going, but where you're coming from as well. It may be the only way to save yourself_."

Shadya shivered as the words of the uncanny Ohmes from last night rushed back to her. She'd done her damnedest to blot out any memory of the discomfiting encounter. The Client, he'd asked if Shadya had seen a ghost. Now that she thought of it, that's unquestionably how it felt.

_No!_ she decided. The female had been flesh and blood, only a bit . . . _off,_ somehow. Or perhaps Shadya's mind—the tiredness, the uncertainly, the Skooma—was playing tricks on her, making more of the encounter than it actually warranted. That was it. Her mind was trying to turn in on itself. But she wouldn't allow it. She wouldn't let it happen. This wreck, this nervous and paranoid jittery mess she was threating to become, that was not who she was. It wasn't who—

_And_ who _is it, then, Shadya Da'kheavek, that you think you are?_

Shadya shook her head more violently. She directed her focus back on the palace, doing her best to clear her mind. This wasn't the time nor the place for soul-searching. There was a job to be done. Do it right, and her financial problems would be over for a good while. She could leave it all behind her, start over.

After that, there'd be ample time to put her mind in order, to look for answers to any questions plaguing her. But for now, they would simply have to wait.

She'd find her way in, somehow. Tomorrow. A vague plan had started to gestate in the folds of her brain, but would have to find its exact shape as she went. She'd never been one for careful planning in advance, but rather went with her gut instead. Thing tended to work out better that way. Too much thinking would only get in the way. And besides, plans always changed. The circumstances changed. Everything changed. Best go with the flow.

Deciding that she had nothing more to do here, Shadya spun around to return to her hideout before some guard caught her woolgathering around their precious palace. Seemingly out of the blue, then, a figure appeared in her way, and with her eyes cast down under her hood, she almost ran into him. Luckily, it wasn't a guard. In that brief unexpected moment, Shadya couldn't make out the short man's features. Not that she needed to. After stifling a yelp of surprise, she awkwardly sidestepped him and went about her way as quickly as she could without appearing fishy. Luckily, the bypassing fellow didn't show any interest toward her, and she managed to avoid any guards on her way back. She rushed back inside, to get a good night of sleep so she could think clearly tomorrow.

* * *

A tall figure nearly ran into Merard by the steps of the Understone Keep. A cantankerous bark nearly escaped his lips, but he caught it just in time. It was best to keep a low profile. There was no knowing who was about at this hour, and he didn't want to get in hot water just now. So to speak.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs. His skin tingled after the scalding bath, and he savored the raw feeling. He'd been reasonably satisfied with the temperature. Most of the time, they left the water too cold; not many liked their baths as hot as he did. Adrognese used to tell him he must have been a lobster in his previous life, unconsciously trying to boil himself. But even the great man, with all his arcane wisdom and might, had failed to understand some basic things.

Pain. Suffering. Most spent their whole lives trying to avoid it the best they could, usually failing at this sooner or later. But the whole time, they were looking at it in a totally wrong way. After all, it was only through pain and suffering that man was able to grow. It was the only direction from where he might find his freedom. In much the same way that it was only through putting his own life at risk—negating his most profound instinct, the instinct to survive—that man proved to himself and to others that he was truly a _Free Man_ , a creature of independent self-consciousness and will instead of another beast among many, so was it that through conquering his innate aversion to being hurt that he became a true individual, unrestricted.

But most wanted nothing to do with being a true individual. Most were quite content in being slaves to their own passions, their own fears.

So it was that victims of torture, for example, sorely missed out on the change they were handed by their torturers, the gift they were being presented. Instead of resisting and fighting the inevitable, they could have given in, allowed the suffering and, by this, ultimately overcome it. Overcome the limitations imposed upon them by their feeble bodies, by their own beastly nature. Torture, then, was for the most part wasted on the tortured.

It was power that was the key to the relationship between the one inflicting the pain and the one receiving it. Because it was man's most primitive imperative to avoid pain, forcing him to experience it gave you reign over him. His will, bypassed and overruled by yours. This made you powerful. Or so you thought. But it wasn't _true_ power. It was a weak imitation at best, attacking a defenseless victim.

No, it wasn't to the power of the torturer that he committed his atrocities. It was to the power of the ideas that drove him to such deeds, to the power of the forces within him that made him derive pleasure from them. He himself was as utterly powerless as the object of his violence. Another victim, as it were. The only true potential power lay within the reach of the tortured, but even they would pass it by.

_Now, who put this nonsense into your head?_

His thoughts were running away from him again, Merard realized. At that, he let his discursive thought run aground, dissipate away. He rehashed the plan he'd devised for tomorrow. It was a good one, he knew, one which allowed him to put his abilities to good use. This sort of thing was essentially what Adrognese had trained him for, even if the old man had never indicated he wanted his most gifted student to become a thief.

But Merard wasn't thief. He wasn't anything at all. And that was exactly why he would succeed tomorrow.

_Such a cocky boy! Do you—_

"Be quiet, father," he said, calmly but with resolution. He nearly surprised himself. But, also to his some surprise, there was no further argument. For now, the voice remained silent.

Merard closed his eyes and smiled. He was so close now. His mind was calm and collected. Soon nothing would stand between him and his quarry. Nothing could stop him.

Nothing at all.

 


	23. The College

The bridge gapping the chilling chasm that fell between the ramshackle town of Winterhold and the tall cliff on which the Mage's College hung was definitely something to behold. It was long and narrow with barely any railing to mention, making Ariela, though not the first one to be spooked by heights, feel giddy when she made the mistake of looking down. It certainly didn't help that the builders had seen fit to include a couple of sharp turns, providing the crossers a generous view of the lengthy fall waiting for them in case of an unfortunate misstep or a slip of foot on the icy stone. At each turning point stood a round stone structure resembling a well, out of which a strange beam of blue light shot into the icy-gray sky.

It was even more freezing up here than it had been at Windhelm, but the difference hardly meant anything to Ariela anymore. Freezing was freezing, and she felt just about as cold as she was ever going to feel. Next step would be total numbness, and then it would be nothing at all.

This, it would seem, was no environment for a scrawny Cyrodiilian from the West Weald.

Another outlandish light-beam projected skyward at the center of the College courtyard. To Ariela, the thing looked like some magical well from which the inhabitants of the school drew their arcane capabilities. Right behind it stood an imposing statue depicting a robed mage, which Ariela knew to be the very first Arch Mage, Shalidor. His arms spread out wide and his face colored azure by the light, it looked as if he was either drawing in the light's power, or perhaps originally summoning the beam from the center of Nirn. The main tower of the College rose imposing behind the statue, giving the powerful impression of some holy place. This impression was completed by its large, round stained glass window with the symbol of the College on it: an eye looking simultaneously somewhat drowsy and yet like nothing fell within its range of sight unnoticed. The thing gave Ariela a strange familiar feeling, which she nonetheless was unable to pin down.

She was hit by a sudden memory of herself hissing at Grushnag about how there was no university in Skyrim. Did this place not count as one?

A young woman, or rather a girl, was standing by the well-thing. Sparkles crackled and danced at her fingertips, and a hypha of the buzzing white-and-blue light issued into the dark skies above her. She must have been practicing, Ariela though, unless she was hunting for fireflies. Though she didn't know it by experience, Ariela still sensed there was certain insecurity to the girl's casting, so she was probably still only practicing to be a mage proper. Of course, the girl's young age probably had something to do with this surmise.

As the two women passed her, the girl gave them a sidelong glance. She turned to them abruptly. "Hey, you!" she said. "You're not from the College, are you? What are you doing here?" Her voice was infused with clumsy surliness.

"Grown-up business, dear," Runa said with a condescending smile. "Don't you worry your little head with it."

An affronted frown marred the girl's undeniably—and somewhat irritatingly—beautiful face. The Breton was tall, even more so than Runa. The hard look she gave them with her eyes of deep chestnut had a measure of practiced superiority in it. She folded her lanky arms under her small breasts and looked the strangers up and down, her long and flowing dark-brown hair fluttering in the breeze for added dramatic effect.

"And you think we just allow any riff-raff to run around on our esteemed property?" she asked in haughty tones. "You are on the premises of the College of Winterhold, the finest school of sorcery in all of Tamriel." It was as if the girl had studied her lines from an advertising brochure. Perhaps she had.

Runa wore an entertained smirk. "Oh really?" she said, stretching her vowels. "And here's us looking for the Emperor Attrebus II's Shelter for Homeless Bards. How wrong can you get!" She slapped her forehead. "I hope you don't mean to tell us next we're not in Valenwood, either. Because that would just downright break our riffy, raffy little hearts!"

Runa looked much pleased with her own wittiness. At least you could not blame the woman for lack of self-appreciation. The look on the girl's face, however, was somewhat less than appreciatory. She narrowed her eyes, studying the sneering Nord.

Ariela thought to interrupt before things got out of hand. She still had Runa's confession of her magical ineptness fresh in mind, and who knew if, despite the first impression, this girl was more powerful than she'd first given out. "Never mind my friend, miss," she said politely. "She has a habit of saying the first thing that pops in her mind." She paused, looking at Runa. "And she's drunk."

"Hey!" Runa protested, but was silenced by Ariela's upheld hand.

"We are here to meet with the headmaster of the Scholar's Guild of Tamriel, Cicero Herennius. I am Ariela, a member of the Guild, and here as invited by Herennius himself." She offered the girl her hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

The girl just stared at Ariela's hand at first, then hesitatingly took it. Her own was nearly twice the size of the Scholar's. Although the girl must have been at least two years her junior, and pretty much every bit as skinny, she still made Ariela feel small.

The girl didn't bother giving them her name, simply nodded towards the door. "Well, why didn't you just say so in the first place? Get in, it's not like we much discriminate around here anyhow." She gave Runa another glower, then went back to her practices.

Ariela herself shot an irritated glare at Runa, but the woman just returned her a shrug and a smirk. She stifled a sigh.

Upon their entrance to the main hall, a kindly old mage greeted them. "Hello there, and welcome to the College of Winterhold," he said. "How may I help you?" His smile was polite and the tone of his voice level and cordial, but Ariela thought she caught a whiff of inconvenienced vexation.

Runa opened her mouth, but Ariela cut her off. "My name is Ariela. I'm here to meet the principal of the Scholar's guild, Cicero Herennius."

"Oh yes," the man said, "we have been expecting you." He glimpsed at Runa in her armor and the two swords sheathed at her belt. At least she'd had the decency to remove the helmet. The man hesitated a while, but then went on. "I must confess we were starting get a little worried when we didn't hear from you."

Ariela blushed thinking about the evening of debauchery she'd decided to indulge in instead of hurrying to fulfill her duty to the Guild. On the other hand, she'd been kidnapped for the Divines' sake! Surely she had no reason to feel guilty. "Well," she said. "There were some complications. But, thanks to my new friend Runa here, I've now arrived safely."

The man looked to Runa and smiled. "Yes, of course. How very fortunate to meet people who still care." He gave a small bow. "The College appreciates your aid, madam."

Runa raised a brow, either at being thanked or perhaps rather at being called 'madam'. "Um, sure. Any time," she said with uncharacteristic ungainliness.

"Of course," Ariela added. "I would have probably arrived earlier had the carriage not stopped coming here."

The man's brow crumpled. "The carriage? What—"

"So!" Runa interrupted, slamming her hands together. "What does a girl need to do to get something to eat around here?"

The elderly mage appeared somewhat bemused by the request. In all probability, people barging in here packing iron and demanding food service was not a common occurrence. However, he resumed his spotless composure rather quickly and even afforded Runa an amicable little smile. "Yes, of course. Where are my manners. You must be hungry after such a long journey. If you'll follow me I'm sure we can find you something suitable to nibble on before your meeting with the headmaster. _Surely_ he can wait a while longer."

Ariela was not entirely sure that she didn't detect a touch of sarcasm in the man's voice. It didn't matter, though, because she wasn't at all hungry. "Oh no, not for me, thank you," she said. "I'd rather just meet with Cicero as soon as possible. If you could just show me where he is, I'll be no more trouble."

"Of course, miss. As you wish."

"Want me to come with you?" Runa asked.

"No need. You just go get something to eat." _And drink, in all likelihood_.

"I'll walk you there," the man said. "And take miss . . . _Runa_ here to the living quarters for a sufficient supper."

The Nord smiled. "Miss Runa would sure appreciate it!"

Sure enough, as they took a door to the right and started up the winding staircase, Ariela, who walked a little behind the two, heard Runa address the older mage, "So. You fellas keep any ale or mead around?" She could not keep from shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

* * *

The Principal, it seemed, currently occupied the Arch Mage's quarters. According to the friendly old man, the Arch mage herself had been away on a mysterious expedition for quite some time, so it was only reasonable that the spacious and peaceful room was given for the use of the sick old scholar.

The first thing to capture the attention upon entrance was the smallish garden occupying the center of the circular room. It was filled with varieties of herbs no doubt meant for alchemical potions. Ariela stopped to stare at the two bright orbs of light slowly hovering around the herbage. She tried to guess at their purpose, but could not think of anything besides bringing extra light. Yet, there was something about them that spoke of . . . intelligence, even. Could these be some magical beings watching over the garden? Perhaps they were some nature-spirits, ever present but unseen, now brought to plain sight by the mysterious powers of the College? Or could it be—

"Who is it?" bellowed a hoarse voice from the back alcove hidden by an arching stone wall. It was followed by a wheezy fit of coughs.

"Hello?" Ariela called back.

"Ariela? Ariela, is that you? Come back here for Julianos' sake, I can't yell!"

Ariela walked behind the wall with mixed enthusiasm and timidity. Once she saw the principal, she was hard pressed to not to let her shock show. The beloved senior scholar looked but a shadow of his old imposing self: face flushed and sagging, and his fair hair grayer than she remembered. He lay under a large, thick blanket despite the fact that the room was surprisingly warm.

The old man's tired eyes lit somewhat, however, as he recognized Ariela. "It is you!" he exclaimed. "I was worried something had happened to you. I would have never forgiven myself, you know."

"Hello, sir. Are . . . you alright?" Ariela asked, knowing full well what a stupid question it was.

This fact was clearly not missed by Herennius either. " _Alright_?" he grunted. "Well what's it look like? Dear girl, does the problem lie with your eyes or your wits? I'm terrible!"

Ariela felt her cheeks flush. "I'm sorry, sir." She said. "What happened?" She flinched internally, half expecting another pout of chiding. The principal was known for his temper, and surely the sickness wasn't helping. It must have been frustrating for an active man such as him to be bedbound.

The old man, however, only frowned. "Ah, bad luck, my lass," he said. "Seem to have contracted some mysterious ailment no herb or spell or even a blessing of a Divine can seem to cure."

Ariela started. "What? Is that even possible?" She felt her heart beat a little faster.

"Well of course it is! How do you imagine anyone ever dying of disease if it weren't?" He shook his head at Ariela's ignorance. Somehow she'd just always assumed all disease was essentially curable, and that sometimes one simply didn't have the necessary resources for it.

Then, the full ramifications of the principal's words hit home. "Die?" she asked weakly, her heart in dead gallop now.

The expression grew softer on the old man's face. "Don't worry, I'm not dead yet." He raised his hand reassuringly. "And I don't intend to be any time soon, either." He launched into another raspy round of coughs.

"Can I get you something?" Ariela asked, not knowing what else to say.

The principal gave a smile that was half grimace. "Actually, you can," he said. "A book."

Ariela perked up. She could at least do that much. "Oh, sure. From the shelf?" She pointed back toward the entrance which had been lined with bookshelves.

Herennius gave his head a rueful shake. "I wish it were so easy, dear girl," he said. "But I'm afraid it will be more complicated than that. This is part of the reason why I needed you here—"

"Oh, so you mean one of the books I brought," Ariela said eagerly. "I'm glad if they'll be of use. Let me tell you it was quite an—"

The old scholar silenced her with a vigorous wave of hand. "No, no!" he groaned. "Won't you just listen for a while!"

Ariela's mouth snapped shut. The ever so familiar sense of embarrassment took her. "Sorry," she muttered. If she'd gained any measure of self-assuredness during the past few days, it immediately melted away in the face of her mentor's authoritative presence.

Herennius exhaled deeply. "Sorry," he said, his voice temperate. "You've had a long journey, I should not be so harsh on you. It's just, I don't know how much time we have."

Ariela was admittedly a bit stunned by the principal's sudden verbal reparation. She'd never once heard him revoke his sharp words before, and wasn't really sure how to feel about it. "It's . . . alright."

"No," the principal said, holding his head in both hands, shaking it slowly. "No it's not. I'm not sure anything is, really." He stared at his blanket for a while, seeming lost in thought.

"Sir?" Ariela asked tentatively. She felt worry accumulate in her chest.

"Oh, sorry!" Herennius said, snapping out of his reveries. "Sorry, I'm not quite myself I must admit. It's this cursed sickness! What was I saying again?"

"Something about a book you need?"

"Yes!" the principal exclaimed, giving Ariela a jump. "Yes, indeed. A book, a book."

Ariela was slowly starting to worry that the old man's head had been softened by the illness.

Then the familiar light returned in his eyes. "You must speak with Urag gro-Shub, he'll provide you with sufficient information. This is a matter of most grave importance." He tapped his temple in thought. "Now, I'm afraid this is going to be a somewhat risky mission that I'm sending you on. But I cannot trust just anybody. I would have done it myself had it not been for . . . this." He gestured at his bedridden state. Then he gave Ariela a sharp look. "You're going to have hire some mercenaries."

Ariela pressed a hand on her chest. "Me?" she asked.

"Yes. As I said this is going to be dangerous, and you're obviously not any more of a fighter than I am. I hear that the Companions in Whiterun are good and trustworthy, so you should probably go to them. I don't have much gold, obviously, but I've managed to put aside what should be a sufficient fund to hire a few of them." Herennius cursed softly to himself. "I asked the College if they could send a couple of their mages, but you know what: they said they cannot afford to risk anyone over any 'dubious mission'. Can you believe that? Dubious! The insolence!" He cursed again.

"I . . . I don't have much experience with sell-swords."

"Well neither do I!" replied Herennius. "But that is simply what it's come down to."

An idea popped into Ariela's head. "Actually," she said. "I know someone who might be able to help. You know, someone connected. Maybe I could talk to her."

The principal was lost in thought again. "Oh, sure," he said absentmindedly. "Anything that might help." Then he gave Ariela an affectionate look. "Just promise that you'll stay behind if anything dangerous happens, alright?"

Ariela was actually touched by the unexpected show of concern. Of course, the principal was not a heartless man and did seem to really care for her, but the warmth of his tone was still unexpected.

"You see," he continued. "I really need you to salvage that book."

_Oh_. Ariel's heart sank a little.

Herennius slumped back into a sleeping position. "I'm really tired, my girl. I need to sleep. Talk to Urag, I've given him all the necessary details and he can provide you with the gold you need. Best of luck to you."

When the man closed his eyes and said nothing further, Ariela turned and started walking back slowly, feeling empty and uncertain.

"And Ariela?" She turned back to face the principal who was looking at her from under half-closed eyelids. "Take care of yourself, and do come back safely." Then he was asleep.

As Ariela walked back towards the stairs, the initial feeling of disorientation and downright dismay started to give way to waxing elation. She was actually being needed.

She was someone important.

* * *

At the Arcanaeum, the College library, Ariela found the Orsimer librarian, practically ancient in her eyes, chatting with Runa. For reasons she did not entirely understand, the amicable manner in which they spoke made her feel a bit apprehensive.

"Hey!" Runa called as she saw Ariela approach. "There she is!"

From the enthusiastic way the woman greeted her, not to mention the whiff of fresh wine on her breath, Ariela could gather that the College kept at least some firewater in their premises. Leave it to Runa to find a flask of wine in a place dedicated to an art requiring a sound and sober mind.

"Hey," Ariela said tentatively.

The Orc regarded her warmly. "Pleased to meet you, Ariela. And welcome to the Arcanaeum. I'm Urag gro-Shub."

"Thank you." Ariela nodded awkwardly.

"Yeah," Runa said, motioning around the expansive circular room with large closed bookcases lining the walls. "Here's where all the dust in Skyrim comes to gather." She pretended to stifle a sneeze.

"Oy!" Urag growled in mock reprimand. "I'll not have you badmouth my lovelies!"

Runa snorted, and the two shared a little chuckle.

"Looks like you two are getting on," Ariela said.

"Ah," the gray bearded librarian grinned. "Runa and I go back."

"Really?" Ariela raised a surprised brow. Probably, thought, she shouldn't have been surprised in the least.

"Yeah," Runa said. "Suppose I didn't mention my mother was the Arch Mage for a while."

Ariela's eyes went wide. "What?"

"Yeah, turns out you don't really have to be that much of a magician in order to lead them."

"Your mother was a great asset for the College," Urag cut in.

Runa shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. No matter, she soon gave up the title. Too much power over things she was definitely no expert of."

"Nevertheless," argued Urag, "I've nothing but reverence for the woman. If it weren't for all her gratuitous work, a good chunk of these books would have been undiscovered." He gestured at the bursting bookshelves.

Runa snorted. "Oh yeah, gratuitous work, for sure. Did a bit of that myself back in the day, till I realized what shit pay it made considering the trouble."

Urag shook his head with mock lament. "Oh, the youth these days. You can't put a price on knowledge, you know."

Ariela felt the urge to second that remark, but kept her silence.

"No, Urag," Runa insisted. "It was _you_ who couldn't put a price on it. A price worth the work put into it, that is. What you can, and should, put a price on, however, is my lovely ass that I put on the line to acquire this precious knowledge of yours."

Ariela, starting have her fill of Runa bickering with people, decided to steer the subject elsewhere. "So," she said. "Many of these books must be pretty old?" She immediately cursed her clumsy initiation.

The old Orsimer, however, betrayed no speck of irritation about the glaring inanity of her question. "Oh, indeed!" he said instead, becoming animated. "You have no idea what ancient treasures lie hidden all around this great province, buried in caves and hideouts, totally unappreciated by those who inhabit them." He stopped to draw breath. "In fact, even I don't have a clear idea how many there still are. After years of accumulation, I still keep catching rumors and hints as to the location of yet another priceless tome."

An uncomfortable stretch of silence ensued. Urag worked his jaw in hesitation, squinting while he studied her. She knew, of course, what this was about. "So," she said with counterfeit confidence. "That's what you need from me, right?"

Urag nodded somewhat solemnly. "I know it's much to ask, considering the danger. And regretfully I have not been able to convince the College of the urgency and importance of this task. Otherwise there'd be no problem, if only they'd agreed to provide you with a sufficient entourage."

Runa huffed. "What could possibly be so important about a book? It's not like we're talking about an Elder Scroll or one of Hermaeus Mora's Black Books here, for Talos' sake!"

Urag shoot an inflamed look at Runa. "Hush, you foolish girl!" he hissed. "Don't go running your big mouth about things beyond your capability of understanding!"

Ariela was shaken by the genuine urgency in the Orc's voice. She had to swallow for the sudden change in atmosphere. She must have been imagining it, but did the light in the room actually grow dimmer for a second there?

Runa herself was clearly taken aback. Her eyes went as large as sauce-plates, and for once she appeared deprived of a reply.

_So,_ Ariela thought with something akin to glee. _She_ can _be shut up_. She instantaneous felt guilty for thinking such a thought.

Still . . .

Urag lowered his gaze, himself obviously taken aback by his own reaction. "Sorry," he muttered. "I can be a little . . . sensitive about these things sometimes." When he raised his gaze back to Runa, it was no less determined. "But I'd still exercise care when even talking about things outside my limits of familiarity."

Runa didn't seem to know quite how to respond, so she just gave a curt nod.

"Anyway," The Orc said, turning back to Ariela. "I can write down the title of the book for you. It's in a nearly entirely forgotten language, and rather lengthy." He started rustling around his desk in search of something to write on.

Runa smiled, looking Ariela in the eye. She had shaken off the chiding she'd received remarkably quickly. "And, of course," she said. "I will provide you with any assistance you may need."

The knot that had started to form in the pit of Ariela's stomach was slackened somewhat by a whiff of relief. Though she did do her best to hide her true feelings, attempting instead to simulate something like reluctant concern. "Are you sure?" she said. "I couldn't ask any more of you." Though in fact she could, and had all the intention to.

This whole business of not being completely honest, which she'd always had a special sort of revulsion for, and which people around her had somehow always seemed to take to with much greater ease, was starting to grow on her. Suppose it was simply an integral part of normal conduct between people, something she was still in the process of learning.

Runa waved a dismissive hand at Ariela's feigned apprehension. "Nonsense. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night, knowing that I'd allowed you to get yourself in trouble when I could have helped." Then her eyes took on a sly glimmer. "Besides, I sense this quest might still prove lucrative somewhere along the line."

Urag gave his head a slow, weary shake. "Somehow, my friend, I seriously doubt that." He offered Ariela a piece of paper with one very long and strange word written on it. "Here, this is the name of the book you'll need to recover. And here . . ." He drew a mark on a map on his desk and turned it to Runa. "Here's where you will find it."

Runa leaned over the map and studied it. As she did so, very slowly, the smirk on her face melted away, leaving behind no evidence of its presence. "Oh . . . balls!"

A grin spread on Urag's face. "Yes," he said. "Yes, indeed."

* * *


	24. The Convoy

Captain Lylvieve was waiting for Quintus outside of the Emperor's Tower. His uniform was spotless, his posture irreproachable, and his overall bearing still absolutely unfitting for an Imperial officer. He stood at ease with his hands tucked behind him, a score of soldiers standing at attention at a respectable distance. They, at least, seemed content pretending that their captain possessed some shred of decorum.

Rikke was nowhere in sight. Quintus couldn't that say he missed her.

Lylvieve beamed as Quintus approached. "Good morning, Inspector! Everything is ready for your—"

" _Chief_ Inspector!" Quintus barked. "Chief Inspector! Would it be a terrible burden on you to request that you get my title correctly?"

The face of the young captain went terribly pale at first, then a deep hue of red. "I, uh . . . apologize, sir. It was by no means my intention to—"

Quintus laughed abruptly. "Pay no mind, lad," he said. "I was only pulling your leg." He laid an assuring hand on the man's shoulder, felt him relax.

"Ah," said Lylvieve, uncertain, "of course. Still, please pardon my carelessness _Chief Inspector_. It won't happen again."

"Oh, by all means," Quintus said with affected ease, smiling through gritted teeth. He patted Lylvieve on the shoulder perhaps just a trifle too hard. "Well, so we are ready to embark then?"

The Captain's burgeoning smile of relief turned back toward unease. "Um, yes. About that."

Quintus frowned slightly. "You're not coming?"

"That's just it, Chief Inspector. General Rikke has insisted I must stay behind. She says she has plans for me."

"Does she, now?" Quintus muttered, his eyes narrowing. "I don't doubt that for a second."

"Sir . . .?"

"Never mind!" Quintus slapped the young man hard on the back, destabilizing him somewhat. Despite some irritation, he couldn't deny feeling relieved that Captain Lickspittle here was to stay behind. "You just hang back and hold the fort, eh?"

Lylvieve smiled awkwardly. The man looked less like a soldier each time Quintus laid eyes on him. It was disgusting. Then, as Quintus stood there giving him an anticipatory stare, he drew himself up and cleared his throat to at least try to appear according to his station. "But worry not, _Chief_ Inspector." Now every time he pronounced the title he did it with exaggerated care. Made Quintus miss it when he'd simply gotten it wrong. "You're going to be in very good hands. _Kayd_!"

From out of nowhere, a soldier sprung forth. "Aye!"

"Chief Inspector, this is Sergeant—"

"Kayd," interrupted the soldier, proffering a hand. "Pleased to meet you!"

Quintus frowned at the outstretched hand, but saw no alternative but to take it. "Uh, likewise."

The Sergeant, squeezing his hand firmly, smiled at Quintus, who now felt certain that military discipline was a thing of fairy tales as far as this lot was considered. Still, there was something strangely disarming about the Redguard's mien. His gaze was friendly but, unlike with Lylvieve, there was a fire there, an irreverent sort of spirited self-assurance and a healthy dose of strength and kindling violence to boot. With his solid facial features—a paler shade of dark where they were strewn with many scars—and tall, sturdy frame, he looked every bit a legionnaire. Quintus was struck with the unexpected feeling that he might not find this fellow's company utterly despicable.

"Oh, yeah," said the soldier, releasing Quintus' hand. "So, we'll be coming along to make sure no harm will come to you, gramps. Let 'em try, and we'll fuck 'em right up, huh!"

 _Gramps_. Quintus felt his face droop. He immediately revised his assessment of the man.

"Kayd!" Lylvieve reproved.

"Ah, pardon me," Kayd replied with mock regret. " _Bugger_ them up, of course." He flashed Quintus a mouthful of white teeth and winked.

Dismayed, Quintus glowered at the Captain. Clearly, the man begot absolutely no respect among his subordinates. _What an excuse!_

Lylvieve's expression was dark, as if he could read the Chief Inspector's mind. Likely, he didn't even need to. "Dismissed, Kayd. Go and get the men ready."

"Aye, sir."

Once the Redguard was gone, Lylvieve was doing his best to appear nonchalant. Still, the expression on his face was indisputably apologetic. "Now, I know what you must be thinking. But despite his . . . idiosyncrasies, I assure you Kayd is a soldier to his bones, and one who you want when you need things done. You could not be in a surer pair of hands!"

Quintus peered over the Captain's shoulder to where the Sergeant was ordering the other soldiers. They responded promptly to the man's commands, which he dealt out with an admirably firm hand. Appeared, at least, that the man had the right touch. "I'll take your word for it," he said absently.

"The horses, along with your carriage, await outside the outer gate," said the Captain. "So, whenever you're ready."

"I am ready," Quintus replied curtly. _Ready to turn my back on this sorry farce and never look back_. He gave a sigh. "Best get this over with, I reckon."

"Yes, sir." Lylvieve almost reached out his hand, then took it to his temple instead and clicked his heels together. "Gods' speed, Chief Inspector. I shall see you when you return."

If _you return!_

Quintus almost frowned at the uninvited thought. He brushed it aside, however, along with the unpleasant feeling that arose with it, and smiled a tight little smile. "Absolutely," he said with conviction.

The Captain saluted again, then spun and left Quintus with Kayd and his men. After breathing out his irritation in one big huff, Quintus drew himself to his full height and swept imperiously from between the soldiers. He headed toward the city gate. With minimal delay, his convoy scuttled after him.

The Redguard Sergeant pulled up beside Quintus. He could see the man try to catch his eye, but wanted to make sure he didn't have to spend any unnecessary time catering to the insolent rube. Kayd eyed the haversack flung over his shoulder. "Traveling light?"

Quintus shot him an unctuously antagonistic smile. "Might I implore you to limit your attendance to matters within the scope of your immediate personal concern?"

Kayd grinned. "Mind my own business, huh?" He gave a gritty cackle. "Sure. I've no problem with that."

_Why do I doubt that somehow?_

In the ensuing, and welcome, silence they strode across the city. On the wide main street running between high-peaked shingle roofs, people scurried to and fro. Merchants bringing in the day's shipments; city guards eyeing everyone with practiced wariness concealing bored indifference; adventurers, either hungover or still drunk, trickling out of the inn; the ancient, ragged beggar after a penny. The usual bustle of a city this size. On his way out, Quintus regarded the execution stage by the gate. The large wooden block standing on the middle of it was covered in dried blood, and he wondered passingly how many days old the freshest coat was.

They walked out the gate and crossed the inner ward. As Lylvieve had promised, a carriage pulled by a pair of geldings along with five tall warhorses tended by grooms waited just outside the outer gate. In addition Sergeant Meric, who had accompanied Quintus from High Rock, sat on horseback by the carriage. Quintus had sent him earlier to acquire himself a respectable horse so that he could join the convoy. It felt good to have someone there he knew he could count on. And though he hadn't informed the Captain that he would have his own man accompany them, he wasn't about to listen to any potential objections, either.

The carriage had two long benches, one facing forward and the other back, with plenty of foot space in between. Quintus clambered into it, claiming the entire forward-facing seat for himself. Sergeant Kayd sat opposite to him along with a beast of a legionary, the Redguard looking comically small next to the bulky Cyrodiilian. The rest of the soldiers got on their horses, two positioning themselves at the head of the convoy, three at the back. Meric hung close behind, as instructed. No one had seemed to pay much attention to the man.

Quintus placed his haversack on the floor between his legs and leaned back on the uncomfortable seat. He fixed his gaze to his left, southeast over the clifftop on which the city rested and toward the misty marshes of Haafingar. It wasn't that he found the view particularly enjoyable, in fact far from it, but he had no intention of engaging with his companions.

Once the carriage had trundled down the steepest slope of the road leading southwest, he reached down into his pack, then, quite shamelessly, brought out a flask and a goblet and poured himself a drink. He glanced up to see Kayd afford him something of an understanding smirk, answered the man with a glower, and focused on his beverage. The other legionary—bull-necked, bull-headed, with a face as ugly as bull's—simply sat there, utterly expressionless, eyes staring into the distance. The fingers on the heavy hands resting on his huge knees were so short and thick the scarred paws looked more like a second pair of feet.

Quintus turned to face away from the smirking soldier and the mute giant. He rolled the cool wine around his mouth, feeling almost pleasant in the early sunshine. For a moment, the wind momentarily blocked out by the tall crags to their right, it was almost possible to forget what an uninhabitably cold region this was.

Still, there was _something_ to be said for the climate, Quintus reflected as he swallowed. For one, the bottle of a decent vintage of Tamika white that he'd managed to discover last night had been cooled to a perfect temperature in that hour's time for which he'd left it on his windowsill. It was just right now, and would remain so for as long as the flaskful he'd brought along was going to last. After that, the second flask, in his bag, this one of cheap red wine, would doubtless be sufficient to carry him over at least until they reached their destination. After _that_ would be a bit iffy, but he was fairly confident the Vigilants would have at least some sort of alcohol laying around. In a place as cold as Skyrim, even the most abstinent religious fanatics could not survive without firewater to warm their insides.

When Quintus made the mistake of letting his gaze slip back to the Redguard, he found the man still smirking at him. "Can I help you?" he asked testily, not able to restrain himself. Something about this fellow managed to push his buttons.

"Oh, me?" Kayd shook his head. "Nah. Just wondering is all."

"Wondering," Quintus grunted. "Wondering about what?"

"Only, what's a slick gent such as yourself doing in an ass-backward place like Skyrim? I'm a curious nature, I suppose, and the good Captain never told me about the exact nature of this little expedition. Sure, that's the way it work, but I still can't help but wonder. Like, I ask myself: what is it here that's so important that this crusty old Imperial should feel to need to travel all the way to the edge of the world . . . no offence, of course." He shrugged. "That sort of stuff."

"You overstep yourself," Quintus snapped. "Need I remind you you're speaking to the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculatus? A man, as it happens, as good as the Emperor himself in his absence."

The smirk stood fast on the irreverent features of the Sergeant. "Nah, you don't need to remind me. And me, being just a lowly provincial man-at-arms and all. Ain't that right?"

"Yes, that is correct," Quintus said curtly. He paused, waiting if the insolent grunt had anything more to add. "Now, _if you'll excuse me_ , I've got things I need to be thinking about."

Kayd lifted his hands in a gesture of mock-surrender. "Don't let me stop you."

Quintus noticed he'd emptied his cup without noticing, so he refilled it, doing his best to focus on the uninspiring landscape rushing by and not grit his teeth in irritation. This trip could not be over soon enough. He drank eagerly, thought the wine tasted a bit sour now, but he was in any case starting to feel its calming effect. His head was starting to feel lighter and his belly was pleasantly warmed. At least he could—

"Still . . ." Kayd said.

Quintus' head whipped toward the Sergeant. "What is it now?"

"Oh, nothing," drawled Kayd. "Just wanted to point out that it might be easier to orient myself to the task at hand if I had all the details. That's all."

Quintus saw no reason to even acknowledge that one. He packed with the most refined aloof sort of disdain the glance that he afforded the soldier. Now that he was looking at the Redguard more carefully, the man actually looked somewhat disheveled. His uniform was a bit wrinkled, as if he'd slept in it, and his cheeks were dotted with at least a couple days' worth of stubble. The state of affairs here were even worse than Quintus dared fear. Was there even a conceivable way in which he could bring up this sorry condition to the High Queen? Would she even care?

Not able to—not _inclined_ to—conceal his dismay, he gave his head a rueful shake. Then, without a word, he reached down to bring up his flask and filled his goblet to the brim, the rest of its contents. He took a long drought so as to drink the cup half-empty. A part of him—a very small part at this point—was concerned he might be losing his rein on things. But what the hell—' _When in Cyrodiil . . .'_ and all that.

He smacked his lips, then studied the Redguard. The man showed no sign that any of Quintus' disapproval had reached him. "Since you won't stop talking." he said, leaning closer. "I could ask _you_ something."

With his perpetual smirk, Kayd inclined to meet him. "Shoot, Your Honor!"

Quintus darted an apprehensive glance in the huge soldier's direction.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Kayd said, following his eyes. "He's completely trustworthy and will not say a word to anyone. Ain't that right, Bull?"

_Bull—well, what do you know!_

The bull-like man, _Bull_ , barely made a reply at all. He grunted at the Sergeant, shifting his skull in an approximation of a nod, in the way the earth shifted during a minor quake.

Kayd shrugged at Quintus. "See?"

"Right," said Quintus. Closer up, it seemed that the Sergeant's stubble was more like a week old. Quintus had noted some other Imperial legionaries sporting beards around here—something which would never go in Cyrodiil, and probably not in Hammerfell, either. Despite their odd, dark skin tone and their somewhat brutish features, the Redguards that'd he'd known had been soundly refined people bespeaking their long history of civilization. This man, on the other hand, had none of that. Clearly he'd been thoroughly tainted by the Nords. "Here's what I want to know: what do you think of Her Highness?"

"Elisif?"

"No—Captain Lylvieve!" Quintus sneered. "Yes, Elisif!"

Kayd raised a brow. "Honestly?"

"Yes, of course honestly!"

"Well." The Sergeant took a look around, leaned even closer. "To tell you the truth, I'd quite like to fuc—"

"That's _not_ what I meant."

"Oh." The soldier looked slightly taken aback, even a little peeved. At least his smirk finally waned. He straightened in his seat. "What _do_ you mean then?"

"I mean as a ruler, obviously."

Kayd shrugged "Fine, as they go."

Quintus shifted irritably on his seat. "What kind of an answer is that, " _fine_ "?"

"Boethia's balls, but you're a petulant one!" Kayd's expression dithered somewhere between amused and bemused.

"There are those to say she's something of a tyrant," Quintus tried.

"Tyrant?" Kayd grunted. "Well, if that is so then I'm Arathan fucking Blackguard!" He laughed at this obscure comparison. "Seriously, though—I've heard my share of stories about Tyrants, and she doesn't square with those."

"Supposedly they call her Elisif the Unfair."

"Oh, that!" Kayd chuckled again. "I believed she might have earned that few years back when she decided to cut back some of the soldier's holidays. There were many mighty pissed about it, to say the least. Many had mistresses around the province that they'd grown accustomed to seeing on a regular basis. And so instead of getting to go and shag 'em, they were stuck sleeping in a musty stinky room with a dozen farting and snoring comrades, choking the Skeever in the dead of the night as quietly as they could." Kayd colored his narrative with a fist-pumping motion. "You can see how that might get to a man. But it wasn't as if she had them crucified or anything."

"I take it that you personally also suffered from this ruling?"

"Heh, yeah. A bit. But I have my ways around these things." Kayd grinned in a manner no doubt intended to be enigmatic. Before Quintus had a chance to say anything further, the man went on. "Wouldn't get on her bad side, though, I tell you that." He leaned closer again, speaking in more hushed tones. "Rumor has it there was someone went missing right about after giving her some lip—and I don't mean that in the figurative sense! They say the man's skin was seen hanging on the city walls some weeks later. By morning, it had already been taken down, but not before someone had seen it." He paused. "Or so they say."

"Old wives' tales!" Quintus spat, once he'd ascertained that the Sergeant was done. "Do you have anything concrete to give me?" Sadly, he felt relatively sure by now he already had the answer to that one.

Kayd shrugged, leaning back. "I don't know what you want," he said. "She has commanded some executions over the years. Won't tolerate any sign of disobedience. Some fellow talks big, breaks the rules, tries to raise trouble . . . he gets taken to the dungeons and walks out a meek puppy. _If_ he walks out. Does that make her a tyrant?"

Quintus chewed on the inside of his mouth. "No, suppose it doesn't, no" he muttered. After all, discipline and all that . . .

If he was completely honest, he wasn't sure why he kept mulling this over. The feeling he'd gotten from Elisif was that she remained completely loyal to the Emperor. And yet: to name her son, one sired—allegedly—by the Emperor himself, after the notorious battlemage who'd long ago usurped the Empire? Who would _do_ such a thing, if not to send some sort of message? What _was_ the message?

"Still," Kayd continued. "It's not like public executions are utterly alien with the Empire, either. That fellow, Roggvir—remember when they got _his_ head. I was just a squirt back then; saw the whole affair with my own eyes. Quite the spectacle, I hadn't realized blood would literally _spray_ from the neck!"

"Roggvir was accused of high treason," Quintus pointed out. "He opened the gate for Ulfric Stormcloak after the man had killed High King Torygg."

"Aye," said Kayd. "So I've heard. Not saying he didn't have it coming. Just saying, it ain't like chopping heads is something utterly unheard of."

The convoy was just passing the small town of Dragon Bridge. Quintus peered past the two legionaries in front of him to get an eyeful of the bridge after which the place had gotten its name. Arching across the Karth River, the sturdy stone fixture resembling a huge spine bore a carved dragon head atop an arch at its apex. The serpents were a common motif in the local architecture. A cherry on top of the already abundant grimness of it, Quintus thought.

"You're right about that," he said to Kayd, his eye still resting on the nearing sullen structure. "In fact, didn't even the just and righteous Torygg once order the execution of some fellow? An Imperial soldier, as I recall."

Kayd shrugged. "I've heard something to that vein; but my family hadn't moved here yet, so I can't say for certain. No one really liked to talk about such things."

Somehow, Quintus found that to be hard to believe. "Not born around here, then?"

"Born, sure. My pa, a Nord him, met my mother in Hammerfell. They fell in love, and soon after my ma fell pregnant. They had to leave Hammerfell, the place was getting restless already before the Thalmor onslaught begun." He spat over the sideboard, his face twisting bitterly for a second. "Was born in Skyrim, but we moved around a lot, until finally my pa got hired as the smith here and my ma bought the store she still runs to this day. Not a particularly interesting story, to be sure."

 _Half Nord, eh? Well, that explains a lot!_ "So, your mother is happy that you work in the Imperial forces?"

"Ha!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "She hates it! Still tells me every time she catches as much as a glimpse of me to find some other line of work. I keep telling her 'I will, I will'; say it's _only temporary_." He let out a raucous laugh.

"Do you mean to?" Quintus asked. "Quit, I mean."

Kayd shrugged. "Possibly. Ain't exactly what it was made out to be. Not a whole lot of excitement. Pretty boring, mostly. Endless drills, and all that. But it's a decent pay, and I get to yell at folks. Plus . . ." He grinned. "The ladies quite take to the uniform."

Quintus grunted. "Suppose they would, at that"

"As a squirt, though, I never really dreamed of becoming a soldier. What I wanted to be was an adventurer. Always wanted to see the world—all of it. Can't say I've yet progressed far on that path." He shrugged. "But then your appetite's always bigger than your mouth."

 _Wouldn't be so sure about you._ "Yes," Quintus mused absently, gazing out at the passing mountainous terrain. "I suppose so."

For the next hour or so, short periods of silence altered with plenty of idle chatter. Though Quintus would have obviously chosen the former, since the Sergeant was clearly a man who enjoyed his prattle, he chose to pretend to humor the man while trying to probe him for some interesting pieces of real information. One scene of uninspiring rocky landscape followed another, and while the brandy Quintus was now swigging at a good pace helped him tolerate his mouthy company, it didn't seem as if he was about to glean anything of true value from the deluge of the young man's oral diarrhea.

"So, you have any words about the Court Wizard?" Quintus asked finally. He'd been hemming and hawing if he should even bring the witch up. Frankly, he'd rather have forgotten all about her very existence. But with his liquor-induced insouciance, he thought he might as well get it over with.

Kayd whistled, his eyes wide in a pretense of horror. "That lady gives me the heebie-jeebies, I tell you that. I'd advise you to stay as far as possible from her!"

Quintus sniffed, a sour smile on his lips. _A little too late for that_. "I'll keep that in mind."

Then Kayd leaned forward, an intense look in his dark eyes. "I'll say this much, though—"

Whatever he was about to say was cut short. The cart jostled by one of the horses abruptly rearing, whinnying as if it had suddenly found Sybille herself at the reins. The startled Sergeant's head whipped around. "Kynareth's _cunt_!" he swore. "Is it too much to ask you keep that beast in—" Those words too were short-lived on his lips; he had spotted the reason for the unexpected commotion. The plumed rear-end of an arrow jutted out the thrashing horse's neck. "—check." He blinked. "Oh."

Quintus gaped, not understanding what was happening. Bull by Kayd's side was on his feet in a flash. Metal sang as the giant wrenched his sword out of its hilt, the expression on his face now rather like a frenzied war hound than the placid animal he'd been named after. Kayd's head whipped back around; he bore frantic eyes into Quintus, who was gripping hard on the edge of his seat so as to not fall with the wildly rocking carriage. Another jostle came with Bull setting a massive foot on the sideboard and pounding off the vehicle, sword waving above his head.

For a second or so, the two remaining men just stared at each other. But soon Kayd came out of his stupor. He reached out a hand to grab the edge of Quintus' collar and pulled him violently down onto the wagon bed. The Chief Inspector did not fall nimbly, and his knee hurt like hell as it took the rest of his weight on it. Barely had he hit the floor—rolling maladroitly on his side, overcome by the pain—before three sequential thumps resounded on the wood right next to his head. When he got his eyes open to get a look at the sideboard, he saw the glint of metal sticking though splintered wood. Arrows. Of the three that had hit, one had penetrated through the junction of two planks. From the arrowhead, his gaze went to Kayd on the floor next to him. The Sergeant too was eyeing the metal. As their gazes met, Quintus saw a burning fire stare back at him.

"Now, I don't know who in Oblivion would be foolish enough to attack an imperial convoy!" Kayd grated. Then a wide, savage grin slowly spread on his face. "But I'm sure glad that they did!"


	25. The Lie

Ariela was moving up in the world. The College had seen fit to provide her with her very own horse. Not a terribly impressive one, to be sure, but the slim auburn mare was temperate in nature, with a steady gait providing for a pleasant, smooth ride. She'd been trying to think up a good name for her new steed ever since they'd left Winterhold some half hour ago, but couldn't think of one applicable enough.

Daisy? Nah, too bland. Scarlett? Too obvious. Thunderhoof? Way too contrived.

Perhaps it would still come to her.

The two women rode their horses abreast. Frost standing considerably taller than her own horse, Ariela was forced to look up at the Nord, squinting her eyes against the low early morning sun. The eyes of both Runa and her mount were firmly set on the winding mountain path ahead, the head of each held high in the fashion of royalty riding into battle. That is, if the royalty ever actually fought their own fights.

A yawn forced itself out of Ariela's mouth. The past couple mornings had been way too early for her tastes. On the other hand, tiredness had quickly taken her over last night, so after a full night of earnest peaceful, dreamless sleep, waking up at the crack of dawn had not been all that painful. The fact that she'd not been intoxicated this time had surely helped. This was something that she was firmly determined to make of habit of.

The same could not be said about Runa. The woman had stayed up late, presumably draining the College of any liquor in their possession, pestering the student and teacher alike in a futile attempt to get someone to join in her depravity, and to top it off, had made several suggestive remarks to several residents, both male and female. Supposedly Urag gro-Shub had indulged her for a good stretch, politely listening to her inebriated yammering for his time until his old age had forced him to retire. After that, and when Runa had received no response to her solicitations, she'd been content keeping to herself, wandering through the echoing halls of the College singing bawdy songs in a drunken, discordant contralto, until finally passing out in the foyer of the Hall of Elements.

Ariela hadn't, of course, learned about any of this until the morning. The old mage, Tolfdir, had informed her of her friend's . . . _eccentric_ behavior in his composed, polite manner, but with a bristling undertone speaking more volumes than were contained within Urag's library. Ariela had nearly died of embarrassment listening to it, but had done her best to take the whole thing in her stride; to shrug it off as it was nothing out of ordinary, or at the least nothing unexpected. When she thought about it, the latter may well have been spot on.

And yet, the way Runa was now, with her firm composure and composed air, there wasn't a whiff of her suffering from the after effects of her conduct—physical or moral. Likely it was that same infusion that she'd given Ariela yesterday morning that saved her from the former, but how she could elude any and all sense of shame, was utterly beyond the young scholar.

Still, what problem was it of hers? After all, it wasn't she who'd made an ass of herself. Sick and tired of taking the burdens of other people to herself, Ariela was determined not to let this bother her. She decided to forget all about it.

She looked up at Runa at the same time as the Nord looked down at her. "So, I have a question," they said in unison.

"You first," Ariela said, but that was likewise doubled by Runa.

"Alright then," said the Nord. "What's the big idea of running after a damned book like our lives depended on it?"

Ariela allowed for a small sigh. "I won't lie to you and say I understand the impetus behind each and every call that the principal makes," she said. "However, I do trust his judgement, and if he says that the book is important, then I believe him."

To Ariela's minor surprise, Runa offered no further counterarguments. "Alright," she said. "I'm just going to accept your shoddy justification, if only for want of a better one." She jabbed her finger at Ariela. "But tell me this: how could he possibly know the book was important if he doesn't even know what it says? If Urag still has to translate it!" She waved her hand as a sign of confusion. "That makes no sense to me!"

 _I could name a pretty number of things that doubtless make no sense to you if we had all day_ , Ariela thought with unexpected bitterness. She immediately felt the impulse to apologize—quite pointlessly, since she'd only thought it. Instead, she thought of saying nothing at all, in hopes that the obstinate warrior would give her jaw a rest for a minute. _Hah—if wishes were horses!_

She felt a little twinge. Where was this hostility coming from?

Trying to expel the uninvited feeling of negativity, she gave Runa her best affable smile. "Trust me," was all she could thing of saying. It rang hollow even in her own ears. _Trust me? Do I even dare to trust myself?_  
  
The look Runa returned her was inscrutable. Might even have been a touch of pity in it. But, in any case, she said nothing to that effect, only nodded with her mouth drawn to a tight line. "I trust you."

Another stretch of silence. As it was threatening to grow into an uncomfortable one, Ariela decided to break it. "So where is it, exactly, that we're going?" she asked, a question so far left undisclosed.

Runa smiled. "Isn't it obvious? To my mother's place."

No, it wasn't obvious. But suppose Ariela should have known by now that things would inevitably lead to the mysterious woman already so frequently mentioned. "Your mother," she said, nodding. "Sure." Yet another moment of hush swelled between them. "Why, again, are we going to your mother's place?"

"Haven't you been paying attention?" Runa chided. "You'd be hard pressed to find many people in this whole province better connected than her, barring the Imperial Legion and perhaps that Black-Briar bitch, plus, of course, the Guilds. In any case, we're gonna need the support she can provide us."

"She'll be coming with us?"

Runa snorted. "Right. She'll come along to push her merchandise on our enemies." She chuckled, then shook her head. "No, I don't believe she'll be coming with us. But her estate holds a host of capable warriors I'm sure she'll have no problem letting us, um, borrow."

"She has her own army or something?"

"Nah, but a person in her position needs protection. She's made quite a few enemies in the past."

"Guess you would know all about that," Ariela mumbled.

Runa scowled. "Alright! What is this?"

"What is what?"

"The whole morning you've been giving me that surly, passive-aggressive attitude. Something bothering you?" She riveted Ariela with her piercing, unrelenting eyes and wouldn't let go. "Is it something I said or did? 'Cause if it is, I'm sorry. Likely I was drunk and didn't even think about what I said." Her expression softened, giving way to something at least distantly resembling sincere penitence.

Ariela felt a pang of guilt. There really wasn't anything, no reason for her to be acting this way. Runa might have been acting like a buffoon, but hadn't caused anyone any actual harm, least of all Ariela. She'd been fast asleep, and it wasn't as though her reputation hinged on the behavior of someone she hardly knew. The Nord had done nothing to her except offer help, asking nothing in return. Was this how she thanked her?

_What's the matter with me!_

Terribly embarrassed, Ariela looked down. "I'm sorry," she said docilely. "I guess I'm . . . I just . . . uh . . ." She kept waiting, but the rest of the sentence would simply not let itself be formed.

Finally, Runa nudged Frost a little closer and rested a hand on Ariela's shoulder. "Ah, don't worry about it. It's probably just the drink getting to you still."

Ariela met the other woman's gaze. "Really? But it's been a whole day. I mean, I feel fine otherwise."

"It can do that, even after the bodily discomfort subsides. Sometimes, after drinking, I go through a whole week just wanting to punch everyone I meet square in the face. Then the next moment, I feel like I might just break down and bawl my eyes out." She removed her hand from Ariela's shoulder and gave one of her characteristic shrugs. "It just does that. To tell you the truth, it's part of the reason I don't really care for sobering up all that much." She smirked. "So I usually just avoid it altogether."

That made Ariela feel a little better. It sure seemed like a solid explanation. Her inexperience with the drink would go a long way explaining why she'd never heard of this before, but it all made sense. She thought back to her youth, of her brother sometimes lying in his bed moping for days on end after his binges. She'd assumed that it was just because he'd gotten into trouble and was laying low for long enough for it to die down. She'd certainly never thought it could simply be the drink itself getting him down. It had been useless to try to pry the reason from the man himself; in fact it had been better to stay away from him altogether when he was like that. Not that he'd ever been violent towards her, but still . . .

"Suppose that might be it," Ariela said. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't mention it. Just glad it wasn't me that got your undies all in a bunch." Runa smiled at Ariela, then turned back to eye the road.

Ariela felt considerably lighter now. There was nothing quite like understanding to improve the world you inhabited. She was glad the nebulous animosity turned out to be nothing more than a simple reaction to the poison she'd ingested. At least that meant there was nothing wrong with her. It hadn't felt right being so annoyed by Runa for no good reason. After all, it wasn't as if the woman had done anything to her personall—

A vision in the near distance ahead caught Ariela's attention, cutting off her inner reflections altogether. What was that wooden contraption headed their way, the one with a single horse reined in front and a young man sitting on an elevated seat? Her cheeks burned and a cold sensation spread in her gut as her mind started making sense of what her eyes registered, and as the realization of what it entailed hit home. "What is that?" she asked, her voice tight as a drum set upon an open fire.

Runa kept her eyes firmly on the road. "Huh?" she said, as if not hearing the question.

"That thing coming right at us," Ariela said. "Can you tell me what that is?"

"It's a carriage," Runa muttered out of the side of her mouth, looking shamefaced.

"Oh?" Ariela said in a tight voice. "Oh, you mean the same carriage that doesn't come to Winterhold anymore? The carriage that only stops at Windhelm. You mean _that_ carriage?" Her voice got louder with each word, and by the end she was more or less shouting. She didn't care, though; not this time.

Runa gave her a sheepish look. "Yeah, I believe it's the same one. Go figure, right?"

"You _lied_ to me?"

"Hey, I didn't lie!" Runa said. "I just . . . trimmed the truth a little, is all."

" _Oh_? By offering an entirely different version of it, one completely at odds with the original? Yeah, I think that's called _lying_ , Runa!"

Ariela was lost for words. She watched the carriage trundle past. The young driver took a quick glance at Runa, then immediately looked away. Ariela knew the feeling; she didn't want to look at the Nord either at the moment. After everything, she could hardly bring herself to believe it. She gave her head a slow incredulous shake. Out of all the things . . .

It had to be admitted that Runa did sound genuinely sorry. Once again. "Look," she said. "Maybe I told a little white lie." Ariela shot her an angry glare but made no comment. "But the fact is: you need me. At this point, you can't even think of finding that book without my help."

"How do you know?" said Ariela. "I could just walk into any major hold capital and hire a bunch of mercenaries."

"Oh, and have you the money for it? They're not cheap, you know. Not to mention: how can you trust them? Someone like you is quite an easy object to swindle—no offence."

There was no denying that Runa had a solid case. That didn't mean Ariela was just going to let her off the hook again. "Even if that were the case," she said, "that doesn't make it okay to lie. You didn't even know I'd need your help, but that didn't stop you, did it?" She gave the other woman a sober look. "Were _you_ going to swindle me?"

Runa's eyes went wide. "I can't believe you're even asking me that!" she sputtered. "I'd never do something like that."

Ariela sighed. "Yeah, well I don't know that. Just a minute ago, I didn't think you would lie, either." That wasn't perhaps entirely true.

After a short moment of solemn silence, Runa continued on her case. "Look, we can spend the entire journey playing the blame game: who did what to whom and all that. But the truth is, I've come to care about you. I guess I sensed you were headed for trouble and didn't want you to get hurt. And I guessed at that point you wouldn't allow me to go with you, so I basically had to . . . improvise a little." She gave Ariela a beseeching look. "I didn't mean anything bad by it, I swear."

Ariela looked at Runa for a long time. She had to acknowledge that Runa's apology seemed genuine. She sighed. "And I'm supposed to just believe that you did it all out of concern for me? No agendas hidden anywhere in there?"

Runa shrugged. "Well, I admit I was starting to get a little bored. You know, life was starting to get pretty predictable; what with the chasing of bandits, the drinking, and the fooling around. Running into you was, like, the first thing to happen in a while to break the routine. So I thought going with you might be nice change. Plus, it'd been long since I last went to Windhelm. I have to say, by the way, it's, if possible, even worse a dump since last I saw it."

"Don't try to change the subject!"

"Alright," Runa replied, her voice cool. "Let's talk this over then. What do you wanna do, go our separate ways? Or perhaps you'd like to continue where we're headed, receive my help and use the resources I can access, but mope around the whole time like some aggrieved old wife?"

For somebody in the wrong here, Runa was suddenly adopting an awfully entitled tone. But Ariela couldn't really argue with what the woman was saying. What was the point of grumbling about something that had already happened? Especially when it _was_ a fact that Runa's help was much needed. She let out a resigned sigh. "I guess you have a point. We'll carry on."

Runa pulled Frost up close and stuck out her hand. "You have my apology. Friends?"

Ariela looked at the hand a second, then let herself smile a little. She extended her own hand. "Accepted," she said. "Friends." Just as Runa's visage had assumed a satisfied expression, she added, "Just don't lie to me again, alright?"

"I swear," Runa said, raising her hand.

That just had to be good enough.

Several minutes later, Runa turned to Ariela. "You never asked me where we were going, by the way."

"I did," replied Ariela. "And you told me: your mother's place."

Runa shook her head. "No, I mean ultimately. As in, where is this book of yours. You never even requested to see the map."

It was true. She had the tendency to avoid thinking about things promising peril in the near future. She'd watched as the look on Runa's face had changed when she'd looked at the map, and had known then that they were about to get into something dangerous. So she'd sidestepped the thought. After all, was there any point fretting about it beforehand? Admittedly, this habit of her was completely at odds with her overall penchant for wanting, or rather _needing_ , to know the truth of things. But when it came to the things in her own life, and especially bad things, she tended to squeeze her eyes closed until it became entirely impossible to avoid them any longer.

"I figured I'd find out eventually," she said, shrugging as if trying to duplicate Runa's nonchalance.

"Hmm," said Runa, "how very uncurious of you. Well, do you want me to tell you now?"

Ariela thought about it for a moment, then gave a thin smile. "No. I think I'd rather not think about it for now."

It could wait. She wanted to try to just enjoy riding in the wilderness for the moment. Maybe she could even pretend that nothing dangerous was waiting ahead. That maybe adventure could really mean just an exciting change of routine, without entailing peril and terror like it did in real life.

"Suit yourself," replied Runa with a shrug.

The Nord then fixed her resolute gaze on the winding mountain path ahead. Ariela, trying to adopt at least a little bit of her companion's confidence, followed suit. But try as she might, she could not bring herself to look toward the future without feeling the cold hand of anxiety resting firmly around her insides. And while that may not have been anything new, it was worse now than ever before.


	26. The Lure

Markarth at late morning was by far not the busiest city scene in Tamriel, yet the modest amount of people rushing past left and right, hurrying for whatever they felt it was worth hurrying for, left Shadya profoundly uncomfortable. As she ambled up and down the sloping streets, her every instinct kept screaming at her, telling her to rush as far away from here as possible—to Oblivion with the Client and his spurious promises! She should run over those mountains and leave this rocky, barren, hard-faced land firmly behind her. She wouldn't even need to retrieve her old earnings from Whiterun. Better not risk it. Just run. Run fast!

_You pitiful, pitiful coward!_

Shadya closed her eyes, let another surge of Skooma loose from her repositories. _Calm, calm, calm_. After half a dozen or so heartbeats, each slower than the other, she was able to refocus. She scanned the street in front of her, the one sloping up from the gate toward the Keep, ignoring the distractions. It wasn't the common folk she needed to pay heed to. No, her quarry represented a very select demographic of the pairs of boots slowly wearing down the stone passages. She'd been tracking down the city guards, taking note of their routes, sizing them up. Starting out, she'd not had a clear idea if this was going to work, or even what exactly it was she was going to do; but she was starting to get a pretty good picture of the plan taking shape in her mind, and was feeling a shyly growing confidence in it. It was so simple it could either fail at the outset or bear exactly the fruit she was hoping for.

Either way, there was only one way to find out.

Ahead, walking down the street, was one of the guards that she'd picked for the next round. Tall and lean, just about the right size, this one would do perfectly. Shadya stopped, took a deep breath to settle her nerves. Then she peeled back her cowl, straightened herself and set out again. Although she mostly ignored them, there were some disdainful glares thrown her way. It didn't matter. It wasn't as if it was illegal for the Khajiit to appear in cities, even if they mostly never did so. And she could certainly deal with a little bit of scorn. She was used to it.

Strolling up the hill to meet the guard as unhurriedly and as casually as she could, Shadya pulled her cloak tightly around her form. She let her hips sway lazily from side to side, like a tigress on a prowl. That, essentially, was what she was. As the guard was just about to pass, she afforded him a nonchalantly inquisitive look from under half closed lids. The guard had his eyes on her as well and now tensed under her scrutiny. She could read contempt in his body language. If it hadn't been for the face guard covering his mouth, Shadya was certain he would have spat.

Not this one, then.

She picked up her pace after passing the guard, hurrying out of his proximity. A few steps later, she stole a glance over her shoulder, and when the man hadn't turned to look, pulled the cowl back on and scaled the next flight of stairs to her right. Her face hidden, none of the passersby spared her as much as a curious glance. And no sooner had she set foot on the next tier when she had her sights trained on the next candidate. Repeating her earlier measures, Shadya peeled back the hood and walked to meet this one. Then, as they passed, she glanced to see his head turned in her direction ever so slightly, groping for surreptitiousness. She could see the eyes move behind the face-guard, and they quickly slid up and down her form. She felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. Pretending not to take notice, she unhurriedly passed. She didn't even have to look over the shoulder to know that his eyes followed her.

Then, once she was out of the man's sight, she pulled her hood back and quickly descended back to the ground level, and, her eyes fixed up on the higher tier to keep track of where the guard was walking, traced back her earlier steps. She then sought out another stairway to climb back up, setting herself up for another run-in. She came at the man a second time, acting casually, cowl pulled back and eyes everywhere but on the guard. Then, right upon passing him, she let her eyes slide over the man. He was staring, seeming confused. _Perfect_.

Shadya stopped abruptly in front of the guard, feigning a frown. He also stopped, seeming to be taken . . . _off-guard_. Shadya balled her paws into fists against her hips and glared at the man. "And what are you looking at?" she demanded.

"I, uh . . . "the guard stammered. "Nothing."

"Uh-huh," Shadya said, unconvinced. She took an assertive step and the guard faltered back. She felt like smiling but kept a stern façade. "Sure you were."

"I wasn't—" the guard tried again.

Shadya's expression thawed, replaced by a kittenish little smile. "Oh, come now," she purred. "I know you're curious." She pawed playfully at the quilted leather encasing the man's chest.

"What are you—?"

Shadya leaned closer still, murmured huskily, "When do you . . . _get off_."

"I don't . . ." The man's expression then changed, shifting from consternation to nervous intrigue. He stole a glance about, cleared his throat. "I've rounds 'till midnight," he replied in half-whisper.

"Oh." _Damn_. Shadya felt her face sag, her bearings stiffen. Not this one, then, either.

"Although," the man hesitated. "I'm up for a fifteen minute break in half an hour."

_Aha!_ Shadya smiled. "That'll more than suffice," she drawled. "Meet me at the . . ." She paused, needing to suppress a wince before finishing. "At the _Hall of the Dead_ in twenty minutes' time." She smiled against her true feelings. "Promise you it'll be well worth your time." Even as the words left her lips, Shadya felt a constriction in her chest. And it wasn't just over the place of rendezvous. She pushed it back, however, forced a playful expression on her features and pawed at the man again. "See you there . . . handsome?" Then, despite the rising inclination of her words, she spun on her heel and left her question hanging in front of the blinking eyes of the guard, strode away with hips wagging. She did not look back again.

Once she knew herself to be clear of the guard's line of sight, she once more hooded her head, her sway stiffening to a resolute scuttle. Despite the drug, her heart was beating hard in her chest. She couldn't' believe it was really that easy. _Was_ it? What was it that she was about to do?

She pushed the question away. It was no use thinking about it in advance. The wheels had been set in motion, and from now on she had to just take things as they unrolled. She knew she would do what it took to get her paws on her prey, her ticket out of this mess. This . . . "life" as she called it. Just this one more job and she could be done with it all. At least for a good long time. There was no room for doubt, no room for trepidation. She greedily drank any residual Skooma left in her body, let the calming warm wash over her. Everything grew quieter, so still and soft. She suddenly wanted to smile. Things would go smoothly from now on. She would do this. Nothing could stop her. _Nothing_.

Instead of killing the remaining time by walking up and down the streets, Shadya decided to head straight to the Hall of the Dead. This returned her apprehension. Even with the Skooma, she could do nothing to keep those places from twisting at her innards. In any normal circumstance, she wouldn't be caught dead near one . . . so to speak. But she steeled herself and set a steady pace, climbing the stairs to the city's furthest southeastern reach where the Hall resided. She hesitated only a short while before opening the door.

Even after the relative silence of Markarth's streets, the blanket of deep hush that seemed to fall over her once the door closed behind her was unnerving. A cavern of cold, damp stone, the hall was a long and tall catacomb sloping down as it went, interspersed with elevated chambers lined with shelves for coffins. The only sounds besides Shadya's heartbeat were the hissing and crackling of torches set far in between and the soft howling of the wind in the ragged contours of the high natural ceiling. Dim shuddering light danced with deep shadows in that unnerving silence. The cool air smelled of stone, incense, and embalming fluids. It was as much the smell of death as the reek of rot and decomposing. More so, in a sense.

Once more, she pushed aside the uninvited dread and forced her feet to move on the cold stone, to take her further into the crypt.

_Don't worry, this is hardly where_ you'll _end up!_

Shadya scowled, suppressing a cold chill. That thought had contained no trace of consolation; her own mind was mocking her, big time. She could nearly hear a cold cackling laughter in the back of her mind. _Don't come apart on me now!_

Against her expectation, however, she soon got used to the surroundings. To be sure, she was still on some level completely in the grips of a deep primordial terror in the face of the inevitability of death, the certainty of her own impending demise. But here in the silence of the halls, surrounded by death, was a kind of deep calm. The folks who came here were permanently relieved of any and all stress. No hurry or urgency plagued them anymore. Nothing at all did. They had made it, finally at peace. And that peace, it seemed, was contagious. Small wonder, then, that people working in such places often had a certain deep tranquility about them. Their work wasn't going anywhere. They could take their time. They had the right perspective, they saw where it all ended up, no matter what we did. _Perhaps only once you've made your peace with the dead, can you—_

_What in Oblivion are you going on about!_

Shadya shook her head. She should have eaten more of the Skooma, she realized. Her mind simply refused to settle down today. But she couldn't afford to lose any of her focus, become engulfed by these morbid meditations. Ignoring the scornful laughter in the back of her mind, she carefully walked deeper down the hallway. The crunch of occasional gravel under her bare paws added an unwelcome counterpoint to the poignant silence, but there wasn't much in the way of avoiding it, and she certainly was walking as lightly as she could. Still, if there were anyone here, they'd likely heard her by now. In this sort of silence, she was sure, one grew extra sensitive to any additional noise.

Once she reached an intersection, she halted. To the right, the passage made a sharp turn and then another to the left, continuing beyond Shadya's field of vision. To the left was a short flight of stairs, at the end of which she discerned the top of an altar. For Arkay, she believed. That way likely led to the living quarters.

Eyes fixed in the altar direction, Shadya cleared her throat. "Hello?" she called softly.

Silence replied.

"Anybody in here?"

Somewhere in the distance, she thought she could hear the soft rustle of wings. Other than that, nothing.

_It's empty_ , she decided, though she was certainly not inclined to confirm it. Despite having calmed her nerves a bit, she did not want to challenge what flimsy calm she'd achieved by advancing any further into this place than she absolutely had to. It was difficult enough trying to focus on what she was going to have to do in a few minutes.

_Oh, Alkosh, not that! Think of anything but that._

Shadya closed her eyes. In that chaotic hubbub in the back of her head, where unrefined mental impulses gurgled in disarray before the conscious mind fashioned them into comprehensive thoughts, was nothing she was interesting in bringing into surface. No thought whatsoever presently held any attraction for her. She sat cross-legged on the hard ground. She kept her eyes closed, and rather than trouble herself with the restless din of mental scramble, focused on the cool calm of the Skooma-empowered non-verbal part of her mind. Only on the conscious, the observing part: that was where the warmth was centered. Soon she felt a smile start to tug at her lips. A peace spread out into her entire being. _Ah, blessed substance!_ The serenity returned. It felt so good. If death was the final release, this must have been the next best thing.

It seemed like only seconds had passed, although it must have been longer, when a sudden rumble startled Shadya back into her physical surroundings. Just as she had suspected earlier, it seemed the simple opening of the door made as much racket as an earthquake in this silence. She quickly sprang up and pressed herself back against the wall behind her, and went completely rigid. Just like that, the calm had vanished. She kept a nervous eye cast in the door's direction, listening to the sound of small, careful steps. To be sure, the crunching was considerably louder than the sounds of her own approach had been. Booted feet, these.

_Let it be him, now, and not a person working here! No one else need be mixed into this._

It seemed to take forever for whoever it was to come into view. Shadya's breath and heart seemed to again wage their war against her, refusing to settle back down. Her fingertips itched. Her every instinct was telling her to run, either away from the noise or toward it. To flee or to fight, but not to wait. Never wait.

Bad things came to those who did.

_Shut up, shut up, shut—_

Finally, a head encased in a visored helmet came into view, and Shadya breathed out in relief. That relief, however, was short lived: as she regarded the guard's cautious movements marked by apprehension, a terrible twinge of foreshadowing guilt made her wince. She deadened her emotions at once. They would do her no good here.

" _Psst_!" she whispered.

The guard's shoulders seemed to relax at the sight of her. Shadya wondered what the man was thinking. Could be that he also was scared of—

_Quiet!_

She forced a smile, and beckoned the man with a slow, playful wag of a finger. As he approached, eagerness mixed with obviously habitual wariness in his step, she set a foot on the lower steps leading to the nearest burial chamber. She nimbly climbed up, giving the man a teasing smile over her shoulder.

She felt like vomiting.

The guard followed her into the small compartment. With a nervous glance behind his back, he whispered, "Are you sure we're alone?"

"Quite sure." Shadya grabbed the man by the shoulders, drawing him all the way in.

Up close, Shadya could hear the guard's heavy breathing underneath the faceguard, heard the thud of his accelerated heartbeat. The latter mixed with the heavy beat of her own. Blood rushing in her ears. She smelt the acrid, mildly spicy odor of his sweat. There was apprehension in it. She could _feel_ it, too. And she felt his . . . excitement, and it was all she could do not to scowl.

"So . . ." the man said after a moment's silence. He sought to conceal his nervousness, but the nearly imperceptible cracks in his voice gave him away. In her heightened state, nothing remained hidden from Shadya. Even if she'd wanted it to.

She hadn't actually planned any further than this. Not even this far, in truth. So she just went with it. Taking a step back, she undid the clasp of her cloak and shrugged it off her shoulders to let it drop to her feet. She was naked underneath.

The man gaped. "Oh." There was that confoundedness in his eye that Shadya was very familiar with. Excitation mixed with slight bafflement over what he was looking at. He'd never seen a naked Khajiit before.

Shadya could sympathize with his confusion. From head down, her sleek form might have well belonged to a human female. Unlike her distant cousins, she had two breasts just like the Humans and Mer did, with rose colored nipples like a Nord might. The musculature of her body also conformed to the form of humans, and the way she curved at the hip no doubt resembled anything the guard had seen on any previous partner. Really the only thing to glaringly set her naked body apart from that of a human was the thick coat of tawny fur that covered it entire. That, and of course the fat tail curving up from her backside.

Perhaps neither of those was a small thing, though most men got over both pretty quickly. Astonishingly quickly, in fact.

_Alright, that's enough staring_. Shadya reached out to grab the guard's right arm. She deftly unlaced the gauntlet, and placed his bare hand on her bosom. The man swallowed, blinking. Then the fingers slowly clasped. Shadya smiled at him. His touch disgusted her.

And yet, a part of her—

Shadya pushed back all feelings. Her smile quirked. "Your first time?"

The guard looked taken aback by the question. "Well, uh . . . "

Shadya rolled her eyes. "With a cat."

"Ah. Well, ah, yes sure. I've never . . . Ah, so how, um . . . do you . . .?"

Shadya pressed a finger on her lips. "Shh! We needn't waste time talking." Every word out of the man's mouth only solidified him as a person in her mind.

She pressed the side of her face against his leather-covered chest, then nuzzled down his arm, past the short sleeve of the chainmail shirt, brushed her face against the bare flesh of his forearm. The anxious pong of his sweat nearly overpowered her; she switched to breathe out through her mouth. She could feel the man's confusion as her head traveled past his torso, slowly up his other side.

"Uh, should I, maybe, take off the helmet?"

"No!" Her tone was a bit too forceful as she sharply lifted her head to face the man. She forced her expression to slacken despite the cold claw suddenly clamped around her heart. She did _not_ want to see his face. The eyes in the slits of his face guard were bad enough. She broke away from them to stare down at her paws, half an inch from the man's boots. "Let's just keep it on for now," she said quietly.

After repossessing her act, she gave him her sultriest look. She forced what was left of her spirit into it. "I'll show you how we do it . . . the Khajiit way."

Before he had a change to respond, Shadya pivoted the man around. A weight seemed to fall of her shoulders with the turning away of his eyes.

The man's confusion was palpable. "Oh . . . alright."

Shadya pressed herself tight against him, slowly running her hands up his knotted arms. She fought down a preconscious visceral reaction about her loins, while simultaneously keeping bile from surging up her throat. _Almost there now_ . . .

She pressed one hand behind the man's head, ran the other one up the face guard. As he relaxed into her hold, a low groan escaped his throat.

_Oh, gods!_

Squeezing her eyes closed and biting down her teeth, Shadya tightened her grip and, with one quick motion, forced the head between them to twist sharply to one side. The cracking of his neck produced a sickening echo in the silent cavern, made her skin crawl and the hair all over her body stand on end. Her skin prickled, and she had to suppress the heaving of her stomach.

The guard went slack in an instant, dropping at Shadya's feet like a marionette with the strings cut loose. She stood there for a long moment, her eyes closed, waves of nausea trying to double her up. Her heart raced, breath running feebly and superficially thought bunched muscles.

She forced herself to return to reality, then, to finish what she started here. She looked at the body crumpled before her. The eyes weren't visible, bless Sangiin!

_That was a person just seconds ago_ , she thought, quite despite herself.

This wasn't her first kill, not by far. And yet . . . They always said it got easier each time. So far, she hadn't found that to be the case.

_Gods, I hate this so much!_

_Oh, but it feels so_ good _, doesn't it?_

Shadya hissed as another wave of nausea swept through her. _In any case, what's done is done_.

She looked down again. Nothing but some meat. Had the man had a wife maybe? Some children? Were there folks out there waiting for him to come home?

_Well, they can wait forever now._

Steeling herself, Shadya knelt down. _Stop thinking and let's get this over with!_ Carefully avoiding getting a look at the corpse's face, she swiftly undressed it. She made sure that it remained face-down the whole time. Once the dead man was down to his smallclothes, Shadya stood to pry open the lid of a coffin sitting on the shelf beside her. Empty, thank goodness. The body felt nearly too heavy for her to lift, but with effort and some groaning, she managed to force it into the empty casket. She slid the lid back in place as quickly as possible. Then she collapsed sitting on the floor, the back of her head pressed against stone.

Eyes closed, she waited for her breath to settle. She spent a good moment hovering in the place in her mind where no thought, no doubt, no conflicting emotion—no _guilt_ —could find her. She stayed there until the catacomb's cold air on her nakedness, the unrelenting cold stone underneath her, made her shiver. At least she told herself it was those things.

Shadya forced herself up. She picked the cuirass off the floor and, after a split second's hesitation, pulled it over her head. Her eye had been correct: it was a near perfect fit, if not a bit loose about her shoulders. But it would more than suffice. After hastily donning the rest of the guard uniform, there was only one small problem. The armor left her forearms bare. Her furry forearms. Without a doubt, that would raise some eyebrows. Not to mention questions. And that was out of the question.

She picked up her cloak, unsheathed the claw of one finger and traced a streak across about the hem, tearing off a sliver of the fabric. She wrapped the piece of cloth around the bare area of her other arm, concealing the critical area. She inspected the result. Good enough. Though she'd still better seek to keep her arms as out of sight as possible.

Once she'd repeated the procedure with her other arm, she bundled the rest of the cloak and hid it behind the casket with the guard's corpse in it, then made to march out of this place of death as fast as possible.


	27. The Scrape

 

 

 

Despite the chaos that he knew had suddenly ensued around him, Quintus couldn't tear his eyes from the dark face inches from his own. He felt trapped by the feverish gaze that had taken over those eyes, seeming to bore right into his soul. At that moment, he did not know what to think, what to expect. To be sure, for the life of him he could not tell which it was that he should be most afraid of: the source of the arrows that had rung in the wood beside his head just seconds ago, or this man right in front of him.

The manic grin on the Sergeant's face got broader. "Man, you should see yourself just now!" Kayd grated, giggling. Then, suddenly, his expression went absolutely solemn. "You just hold tight, old boy. I'll get us out of this!"

Despite the fear, the uncertainty, the earnest panic bubbling inside him, Quintus' teeth clenched at that. _"Old boy"! I'll show you—_

"Hey," Kayd said, frowning at Quintus almost empathetically. "I said I'll take care of it. Don't be afraid."

_It's not the_ fear _you're seeing, you gods-damned addlebrained fool_ _—_

The carriage jolted again, its front ablare with the screaming of frenzied horses. The Sergeant started speaking before his head whipped around. "Driver, can you bring the horses to—" The realization of the futility of his words silenced him. The coachman was still sitting in his place but was no longer taking orders. His head lolled grotesquely to the side, blood ran freely around the shaft jutting out from the base of his neck. The reins were wrapped around his wrists, the other hand still gripping them. "Ah, right." Kayd faced Quintus again, flashing a smile no doubt meant to be cheering. "Guess that's a no, then."

The cart kept moving slowly and spasmodically, the horses in earnest panic. Kayd carefully peered over the sideboard, grinned down at Quintus. "Man, you won't believe it—bandits! Some royally stupid sons o' whores they must be! Oh! I just can't _wait_ to get out there!"

Quintus, not getting a word out of his mouth, caught a frantic handful of the Sergeant's shirt, staring wide-eyed.

The man rolled his eyes. "Don't fuss, not until I get you to safety."

_Safety—and where would that be!_

Kayd slid across to the other side where the door was, unlatched and threw it open. With care, he peered out in both directions, then waved Quintus over to join him. He was slow to react, his body felt filled with lead and his limbs made of wood, but the Chief Inspector made it. Kayd looked as if he was stifling a smirk watching him. "Alright," the Sergeant said then. "This is what we'll do: see that outcrop up ahead? Don't worry, you can look; the action's over at the other side at the moment."

_At the moment!_ Staying as far within the relative safety of the boards as possible, Quintus squinted out the door. A low and jagged crag jutted out of the hillside a few paces ahead. It looked far away, given the situation. He nodded.

"Good. That's where we'll be headed. Don't look at me like that! Alright, on 'three'?" Quintus tried to shake his head. Kayd grinned, slapped his shoulder, hard. "Good. Now—three! _Go_!"

There was no time for Quintus' objections as the firm hand of the Sergeant dragged him out of the carriage. Then they were running, Quintus' feet pounding the ground with rediscovered vigor, his head ducked behind Kayd's robust frame. And when they got to the rock, it wasn't a second too soon. The Chief Inspector dove behind it like a mole plunging into its warren, except perhaps a bit less gracefully. He winced as an ass-cheek scraped against gravel.

Kayd was right behind him, though seeming not to be in that much of a hurry. Breathing easy, he knelt next to the wheezing Quintus. "There," he said blithely, "I told you we'd make it."

_It's not over yet!_

Kayd grinned. "It ain't over yet, though. You ought to be alright here a while." He patted Quintus' shoulder. "Hold tight!"

"Wait—" Quintus tried. But the other man was already going. He gnashed his teeth. _The Void take that swaggering hick!_

But it was no use. The man was already good and gone, off to join his fellow brainless grunts to bash in some bandit skulls. Quintus was lucky enough to have been left out of it. He shivered at the thought of those arrows that had landed right beside his head. He'd been caught right in the middle of it all for a while. Gods, perhaps he even owed the obnoxious mutt his life!

He didn't want to think about it. Trying to focus on his present, still living and breathing state, he was met with the smarting of his right ass-cheek. There would probably be some bleeding, or at least a nasty chafe. That would bode ill regarding the rest of the way, sitting on that hard bench of the carriage. That was, if there would _be_ a rest of the way. . . In any case, he would _not_ ask anyone's help healing it! Asking for a potion would certainly raise questions if he seemed unharmed. _Guess I can always say I hurt my leg or something_. _I'll chew them right out should they try giving me any lip!_

He shifted on the ground so the buttock wouldn't touch the ground. Taking a deep breath brought to his attention the air around him. It was foul, reeking of sulphur, wind blowing from the north where lay the marshlands separating here from the Sea of Ghosts. Ahead of him, to the east, he saw glimmers of white in between the thick brushes of evergreen branches. The heart of Hjaalmarch towards where the road veered was hugged by mountains, and that doubtless meant a colder climate.

As Quintus refocused on the din of battle behind his back, the singing of metal on metal, the cries and curses of men and women, a terrible foreboding stole over him. What if the soldiers ended up losing the scrape? What would happen to _him_ then? Fighting a surge of panic, he tried to convince himself of the opposite. Certainly a bunch of wayward highway-thugs could not take out highly disciplined Imperial legionnaires? Though such travesties were certainly known to have happened . . . And who was to say these were simple run-of-the mill brigands? Was it certain that they were bandits at all?

He couldn't help it, he'd need to get a look at the action.

Pressing himself flat against the outcrop, he inched toward the edge. Peeking, a certain relief reached him. These were most certainly nothing but petty thugs. Armor of leather and hide, at best marred, poorly kept iron, similarly characterized weapons mostly held sloppily, lacking in form except maybe for an odd exception. And against them the well-equipped, carefully trained professional soldiers of unwavering regimen—most of them leastways. These unwashed ruffians must have been completely off their rockers! Then again, their types were hardly known for their keen forethought. If they just saw you slay a dragon and devour its very soul, they'd probably still try to mug you!

Needless to say, then, the soldiers didn't seem to need exert themselves overmuch. That was not to say they were lacking in vigor, quite the contrary. Quintus saw Kayd darting from one fallen bandit to another, his blade swinging wildly and a fierce grin strewn across his face. His sword was a blur as it carved the next poor bastard like the day's goat roast, the woman's blood barely landing on the Sergeant's face before he was off to another oppon— . . . er, victim. As if to provide a contrast to his commanding officer's exuberant butchery, there was Bull, standing firmly in place with his feet wide, hacking mercilessly with a hefty broadsword, taking down with brutal force those crowding to challenge him. The giant of a man easily swatted aside any attempt at a parry, driving his instrument of extermination home to its condemned fleshly targets. Despite the fact that the brute was on his side, Quintus found the slaughter difficult to witness.

Alright, so not every soldier was conducting himself according to honed tactics. But there was no question that what they were doing was working out for them.

Despite what he otherwise felt about the man, Quintus felt a rush of pleasure watching Sergeant Kayd at work, slaughtering another lout with admirable ease and grace. And despite the fact that in addition to him and Bull there were plenty of other soldiers hard at work, there simply did not seem to be any shortage of cattle for the carnage. An abundance of bandits about, perhaps several smaller gangs drawn together for the occasion. Perhaps they'd thought that numbers would compensate for their apparent lack in every other field. But why were they attacking in the first place?

_Doesn't really matter, now does it?_ Quintus felt a malicious grin spread on his face seeing the Imperials make short work of the filthy peasants. _This ought to teach them to_ —

A cold pressure against his neck stopped him short.

"See, now?" said a gravelly feminine voice behind him. "Told you it'd pay to go 'round the other way."

Suddenly rigid again, he slowly turned to find two errant bandits standing behind him. A Redguard on the other end of the blade now resting lightly on Quintus' Adam's apple, and right behind her a slim, gritty-faced Nord. They were both grinning, though the comparatively clean teeth of the former contrasting clearly with the darkened, gap-toothed sneer of the latter made them something an odd pair.

"Yeah," the Redguard woman drawled. "We'll take this one, just the two of us. A bit of a bonus for us being so clever, eh?" It was rather clear that the "us" in the latter part stood for "me". She looked Quintus over as if he were a side of ham. Her widening grin broadcasted the result of the evaluation. "A pretty souvenir: an Imperial noble for a hostage! The Chief will be much pleased."

"Oh yeah?" said the man behind him, frowning. "How come?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Well, why do you think, numbskull? Pretty damned obvious." Her eyes flicked up and down again on the Chief Inspector's form. She nodded. "Yeah, the tubby should fetch a handsome ransom."

_Tubby!_

The gaunt man snorted, grinning with his all of his few filthy teeth. "A _handsome ransom_? You've a poet's soul, Tierra."

She whipped around, hissing. "Don't use my real name, chowderhead!"

The man's eyes were wide. "Ah, sorry, Sparrowhawk."

"Well it's a bit late now, ain't it?" Tierra—or _Sparrowhawk_ —grated. She turned back just as quickly, frowned to find Quintus having unconsciously started to inch away. She placed her sword back wherefrom she'd just removed it. "As you were, pops." Irritation was plain on her face, and she pressed on the blade just a trifle harder. "You best forget all about what you heard, now, aye?"

With the cold steel against his throat, it was challenging work to nod.

The Redguard mirrored his reply approbatively. She removed the blade and gestured. "C'mon, up you get."

Quintus scrambled to his feet, making a decision to do nothing to further agitate Sparrowhawk. Despite its blatant stupidity, he decided to regard the woman by the pseudonym, if just to play it safe but also not to grant her too much personhood. As for the other bandit, Chowderhead would do just fine.

Sparrowhawk's sword tickling his back, he set off up the tree-strewn hillside at her ushering. As he did his best lumbering through the undergrowth, losing his footing and stumbling more than once, he kept resisting the urge to take a wistful look down in hopes someone having noticed his predicament. But that hope was bound to be hopeless anyway.

He faltered once more and felt a light prick on his behind. Sparrowhawk's voice had a barbed edge. "Shake a leg, klutzy! I've seen Horkers scratch their asses more nimbly than you climb! In one piece you may be worth a pretty penny and pat in the back, but I'd bet the fun of poking you full o' holes would make for a decent second best."

Quintus set his jaw and did his best to comply, dead certain that the woman wasn't joking around.

By the time they crested the hill, the Chief Inspector's lungs felt as if angry bees were swarming down his throat. On their way through some ancient ruin of thick stone columns jutting out of the forest floor, his feet gave out and he dropped to his knees on the damp ground. He tried to support himself against a tree bole to stand up, but could not find the strength.

Sparrowhawk leaned down and bared her teeth. "This is it, then? Skewered against this tree's how you wanna go?"

Quintus turned his exhausted face to her, trying to force a beseeching word out of his burning lungs.

"Ah, just do it and get it over with," said Chowderhead. "This was a stupid idea to begin with."

"Shut up, you! Although . . . I am considering it." She leaned closer, breath reeking of liquor. "It's up to you, chubs. Either you get up this second, or—"

"Hold it right there!"

Sparrowhawk whirled. At the edge of the ruin stood a man in full Imperial light armor, his nearly spotless steel shield reflecting the noonday sun, the sharply-pointed steel sword hovering at the ready beside his head. His stance was steady though his breathing seemed a trifle strained after having no doubt sprinted up the hill.

Quintus nearly smiled. He had to admit he was pleased to see the man this time.

"Surrender or die!" Sergeant Meric growled. As his eyes flicked at Quintus, they softened for a split second, but when they turned back to the bandit, they were all flaming flint.

Sparrowhawk only sniffed, jerking her head toward the sergeant. Chowderhead took the cue and advanced. He wore a hide buckler on his left forearm, swirling a nicked short sword so precariously it nearly hit his swearing partner as he passed her. His sooty grin was as if he'd won the fight already.

_Bloody fool!_

Meric waited patiently for the bandit to approach, his face an impassive mask. Finally, the bandit sprang ahead with a growl, shield arm first and the blade pointed for a lunge. The Sergeant kept his ground until the man was close. He feinted to his left, and then, as fast as a viper, surged to the right. As expected, Chowderhead was utterly hoodwinked, going right with his sword where he should have gone left with his buckler, and so Meric's blade was offered a clear path past the useless hide buffer into the man's gut, through the leather armor, and finally through the whole man.

The Sergeant promptly yanked his weapon free, and had spun around to face his next adversary before Chowderhead had finished going down.

Paying no mind to her prone companion's death-throes, the Redguard rolled her eyes. "Do I have to do everything now?"

Meric stood still in his assault position again, expression firm and eyes burning with the joyless passion of a man fulfilling his solemn duty.

Sparrowhawk, in contrast, grinned smugly. She looked her foe up and down in the same appraising manner she had Quintus earlier. Her amused eyes flicked from Meric to Quintus and back. "Aye, I see how it is. A hero to the rescue." She raised her chin, rolling the shoulder of her sword arm. "You're making a big mistake here, as you're looking at the undisputed blade master of Faldar's Wolf Pit."

Quintus snorted. That was as ridiculous a boast as he could've imagined from the likes of her. Whatever it was supposed to mean.

Meric neither said nor did anything. He waited for the bandit to make her move.

Sparrowhawk was tossing her sword back and forth from one hand to the other, giving her adversary's face a careful looking over. "Pretty one, huh?" She grinned broadly. "It's been a while since I last cut up a pretty boy. This should take me back!"

"Stand and fight!" Sergeant Meric growled.

"As you wish."

At that, the Redguard swooped ahead, the blade in her right hand. The Sergeant was just able to get his shield in the way of the weapon going for his legs, then again as it went for his head. The swift backhanded chop aimed at Meric's right side was diverted by his own weapon. But the onslaught did not cease. The man was clearly forced onto the defense from the get-go.

Quintus squeezed his hands into tight fists, fingernails driving into the palms. As he watched the blur that was Sparrowhawk's blade seeking again and again to drive home to Meric, his trepidation returned in full force. The Sergeant, his expression getting pained, was able to parry each offence directed at him, but he was clearly not having an easy time of it. The Chief Inspector cursed as he watched the woman, grinning as if she were about to receive a present, handling her weapon with the ease of having been born clutching it. _A blade master . . ._ guess the bitch wasn't just boasting after all. She made Meric in his full attire and soldierly pose look stiff and out of his element. His style had been adjusted to formal field combat rather than face-to-face confrontation, and right now he looked a bit like a bear in a pool with a shark.

Then, just as Quintus was starting to count the man for dead, and was scoping out the surroundings, wondering which direction would be the best for him to run, and whether his legs were even able to carry him, Meric managed to wedge his own blade into the middle of Sparrowhawk's assault. He jabbed hard at the woman's chest, but as if by a miracle, she was able to twist her body out of the way. This did, however, seem to take her out of her element for a while. She spun round to take some running steps away from the confrontation, then spun again. Meric, encouraged by his miniscule success, dashed right after.

Quintus was having trouble watching the fight, as his immediate well-being seemed to now inconveniently depend up the success or failure of one of them. He hated the idea. It was uncomfortably close to having to defend his own life with a weapon. And he'd always made sure there were at least two or more middle men between him and whatever armed confrontation ensured his own continued comfortable existence. Another problem was the fact that both of the fighters were so damned fast, their combat techniques seeming equally implacable. His natural inclination to analyze any situation from the perspective of success and failure was hampered by his untrained eye for the finesses of combat, particularly of the one-on-one variety. He simply could not predict what the outcome would be, and this greatly chafed at him. It there was something he hated with his entire being it was uncertainty.

They were at it right in front of him now, grunting, grimacing, lost in the heat of the courting dance of death. Sparrowhawk feinted at Meric's sword arm, then swirled. As the Sergeant anticipated having to defend himself from his left, the woman quickly retracted her pirouette, spinning back the other way. Meric, utterly bamboozled, had no chance of getting his blade in the way of the Redguard's jab. The tip of her sword grazed at his right upper arm right under the shoulder guard.

Luckily, the force of her trajectory prevented the woman from further attack. She staggered back some paces, giving Meric, gritting his teeth in pain, a chance to lurch away himself.

As Sparrowhawk was preparing to launch for another bout, Meric quickly undid the straps of his shield and tossed it at her. The woman deflected the missile with no trouble, but the maneuver did serve hold her back for a much need second. The wound in Meric's sword arm seemed to be bad enough to hamper his use of it. Stiffly extending and flexing the arm, he grimaced. He switched the weapon to his left hand, then, and soon returned to a ready position, tentatively waving the sword in front of him. It looked rather unsure, and deprived of his shied the soldier appeared to be struggling to readjust his demeanor accordingly. But there was no less determined cast on the man's stony visage. No shadow of pain lingered there.

Sparrowhawk had stopped to allow for the man to rediscover his bearings. "Aw!" she cooed, cocking her head in phony pity, eying Meric's wounded arm. Blood was tracing rivulets down the knotted muscles. Meric simply waited, expressionless, brandishing the sword. The maneuver looked a lot better already but was still clearly short of full certainness.

"Trying with the left one, huh?" Sparrowhawk's smug expression was almost pitying. "Tell you what." She flipped her own sword from her right hand to the left one. "We'll make it fair and square. Hmm?" She shrugged. "Though, I must it admit it never did make much of a difference to me."

Meric still said nothing—only glared, at the ready.

Sparrowhawk dropped her blade in front of her and assumed an exaggeratedly stiff position—a parody of the military stance—while screwing her face into the comical, slightly cross-eyed expression of a simpleton. She dropped the pitch of her voice, crying, " _Stand and fight_!" in a doltish lisp.

Meric growled silently. The woman was starting to get to him, for sure. And the Redguard's satisfied smirk seemed to confirm as much.

But Sparrowhawk wasted no time basking in the glory of her own accomplishment. She launched herself at Meric, and steel sang again. Quintus watched, his whole body rigid, the two combatants trading blows, neither showing signs of letting up. Under strain, Meric's expression cracked slightly, allowing some apprehension to seep through. He was nowhere nearly as confident with his left hand, but his steadfast effort was definitely something to admire. Sparrowhawk, on the other hand, seemed to grow careless with her increasing arrogant glee. Ironically, Meric's uncertainly, his show of disquiet, and his relatively deficient skill with his left hand, made _her_ fight worse as well. As it stood, they seemed pretty much on par.

Still, there still was no denying the level of prowess on display. _What is this woman, a deserted legionary?_ Quintus simply could not credit a base bandit with such skill in combat. After all, Sergeant Meric, despite his other failings, was a highly trained soldier of the Empire. Hand to hand, he should by definition rule supreme. On the other hand, if something could be gleaned from the Stormcloaks, it was that even simple peasants could be brought to a high enough skill level to contend with Imperial training. The thought deeply unsettled him. If he lived through this, he resolved, this was a point he would do well to keep in mind.

If _you survive!_

Quintus heart gave a lurch as Sparrowhawk had Meric backed against one of the stone pillars. Their swords locked. Teeth gritted, Sparrowhawk pressed down with both hands on the hilt, and Meric was forced to do the best he could to push back with only one fully functional arm.

"It really is a pity there's only one of me," Sparrowhawk panted, pressing down. "Otherwise I might even leave you alive. As a reward for the old man, the chief would probably let me keep you to myself."

Meric grimaced fiercely. "Quiet!" he roared. Then, the blunt edge fractions of an inch away from his face, he appeared to concentrate the last of his strength into a ferocious push. He managed to get a leg up and sink his knee into Sparrowhawk's abdomen. The woman oofed out a grunt and was forced back. Meric tried to use this opportunity for a low-energy lunge, but before he had his blade properly positioned, Sparrowhawk had time to respond to his legwork by in turn planting her foot into his crotch. Then they were both falling back, a sudden pallid cast claiming the Sergeant's visage.

As the wincing Meric was doing his best to recover his fighting stance, Sparrowhawk was also trying to regain her wind. Her eyes were aflame as she glared at the Sergeant from underneath her brows. "On the other hand," she said through gritted teeth in between heavy breaths, "maybe I'll just have to find a way." She lurched unexpectedly, propelling herself forth with a piercing scream.

For a wonder, Meric met the woman's onslaught as if he hadn't just taken a boot to the fruits. His blade deflected each blow with precision, even if the expression on his face didn't exactly mesh with the ease of his motions. He didn't, however, content himself with staying on the defense, but managed to turn the tables on the woman more than once. It seemed the longer he fought with his left, the better he got, improving by the blow.

Back and forth they danced, both equally tired and tried now. Sparrowhawk was no longer smirking, and indeed her growing anger did not seem to do anything for the composure of her fighting. Meric, in contrast, had regained the leaden solemnity of expression he'd had when getting into this.

Quintus found himself growing increasingly impatient. This had now gone on quite long enough for his tastes. _If one of them doesn't show a sign of winning soon, I'll—_

Even as he was finishing that thought, Sparrowhawk feinted to her left, having Meric fooled. She kicked at the man hard, unbalancing him. As the Sergeant was forced to take a step back, Sparrowhawk quickly switched hands again and plunged the blade at him. Growling, Meric got his sword in the way, and as Sparrowhawk had invested her balance into the forward move, she lost her own balance, tumbling down on her knees.

Meric had his right leg extended behind him for support and stayed standing. With additional support from his right hand, he pushed down to pin the Redguard's blade on the ground. Before the woman had a chance to recover, Meric withdrew his supporting leg to kick at her hand on the hilt. The fingers lost their grip, and then the weapon was flying through the air.

Quintus' eyes went wide as the sword whirled right at him blade-first. He didn't have time to close his eyes before the weighted piece of steel had sailed right past his head, caressing strands of hair on its way. His head snapped around just a split second later, the weapon jutting out of the tree right next to him, quivering from the impact.

With a snarl, the woman sprang up and tried to punch Meric, but the man caught the blow with his bad hand. He then drove his helmeted head in the Redguard's face, and she stumbled backwards, revolved, and went down on all fours. Even as she was going down, she groped for the knife at her belt.

Meric was faster. He pressed his sword against the nape of Sparrowhawk's neck, growling "Yield!"

Sparrowhawk froze, hand still on the hilt of the knife.

_What in the Void is this, now?_ Quintus thought. He expect to see the death blow.

"Yield!" Meric repeated.

Sparrowhawk's bloodied face snapped up to him, her eyes brimming with fury. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Take that knife out and throw it over there!"

Sparrowhawk made to unseat the small but no doubt just as deadly weapon

"Nice and slow, now" Meric drawled. Then, after the glowering Sparrowhawk had disposed of the dagger, he nodded. "Good. Now, hands behind your back."

_What on Nirn are you waiting for?_ Quintus thought in dismay. _You've got her, kill the bitch!_ He tried to say as much out loud but only a croak came out of him.

Meric looked back to him, flashing a satisfied grin.

_Don't look at me, boy! Eyes on the enemy!_

Meric lifted the tip of his blade above the woman's head, affording her an imperious regard. "By the authority of His Honor Attrebus II—," he began.

Sparrowhawk's eyes darted to Quintus, a trace of confusion in them. Then they switched back to the still talking Meric.

"—I hereby declare you a prisoner of the Emp—"

As fast as a pouncing hare, the woman sprang up, and Quintus couldn't suppress a little yelp. Yet, it was away from Meric that the woman went, dashing into the woods.

"Hey, where are you going!" Meric yelled after her. "Get back here!"

"Idiot!" croaked Quintus clambering to his feet. "What is bloody wrong with you! You _had_ her, why didn't you just kill her there?"

Meric frowned at the Chief Inspector, his face the picture of confusion. "She yielded."

Quintus rolled his eyes. "A _prisoner_? Seriously, man? What were we going to do, tie her behind the cart and drag her along?"

Meric got his mouth open to reply but Quintus waved him silent. "Never mind! Let's just go back now before more of the ruffians turn out!"

Going down the hill was much easier than coming up had been, but that didn't keep Quintus from cursing every step of the way. Shouldn't he be feeling relieved? After all, he'd just had his life spared.

_Ah, sod it! Shouldn't have had it imperiled to begin with!_

They got down on the road to find the battle over, with a predictable outcome. As far as Quintus could see, only one bandit remained. The man was unarmed and running, with Kayd fast at his heels. The wildly grinning soldier caught up with the man and plunged a sword through his back.

Kayd pulled his weapon out of the dying man's back and growled down at him. "Thought you could get away from me did you, you little shitling!" He then spun around to spread out his blood-covered arms at the rest of his soldiers. "Well! Wasn't that fun or what? _Whoo-hoo_!" he howled. "Ha-ha! _Mephala's muff_ , but does it feel good the get some action for a change!"

Meric tensed palpably at Quintus' side as they approached the jubilating barbarian. The younger Sergeant's expression was tight as he regarded Kayd with hard eyes.

Kayd switched his attention to them, as if only noticing them now. "Quintus, my friend, so nice to see you! Where'd you go? I noticed you'd gone off somewhere from where I last left you." Quintus wondered whether the man had actually noticed anything at all.

Before Kayd had a chance to reply, however, Meric rounded on him. "Two of the bandits found him where you last left him, _sir_. And _I_ had to rescue him."

Quintus winced. _Rescue_. Did the man really have to use that word?

"Oh," Kayd replied. The grin he gave Quintus was only a little bit sheepish. "Oops?"

Meric jabbed his finger in the other man's chest, and the finger got a baffled if dangerous look from Kayd. "No! You won't be able to brush this one off. For your blatant incompetence, I shall have—"

"Leave it!" Quintus snapped. He would not let this turn into a farce of a pissing contest. "From where I stand, Sergeant Kayd has shown his competence rather clearly." He absolutely hated praising the man, but he didn't want needless attention on what had happened to him, on his helplessness and the fact that he'd been saved by this parading paragon of virtue.

Meric did look a bit wounded by his words, but at least he kept his mouth shut. Kayd grinned at him, but he seemed intent on ignoring the man.

Quintus looked around at the dead bodies lying all about. At least two dozen of them, and all of them bandits. Where had they all come from? "Lots of them," he muttered.

"Aye." Kayd nodded, eyeing the corpses with a satisfied expression. "A bounty. The ones in the first wave were simple fodder, but the gang that joined later actually gave us a bit of a work-out. Particularly the mage proved to be troublesome; burned Amiel up pretty bad." He motioned at a man lying on his back on the ground, his clothes charred and skin a map of angry red and even angrier red. A nasty noise bubbled out of his throat as he waved away any attempt at help. Kayd shook his head at the display, wincing. In addition to the burned man, there appeared to be a score of cuts and bruises, a nurtured sore arm here, a busted leg there. Kayd himself had a long gash reaching from the corner of his eye down to his jawline. But nothing that couldn't be taken care of with healing potions.

And not a single casualty. Quintus felt a stupid surge of pride at that, and soon swept it aside.

Kayd grunted. "Yeah, it's like they meant business."

Quintus caught the sight of Bull slowly wading amid the corpses, stopping every now and then to kick one as if to make sure it stayed dead. His fellow soldiers were turning out pockets in hopes of plunder, coming up short, no doubt. "Is this . . . usual?" he asked, meaning the generous turnout of bandits, not the looting.

"Usual?" Kayd shook his head. "Nah, wouldn't say so. Sure, the sons o' bitches have grown more brazen as of late. But nothing like this."

Quintus suddenly felt very uneasy. "What do you think that they wanted?"

"Beats the shit outta me," said Kayd. "Could've been a coincidence of course, but from the looks of it, they knew we were coming. Could be someone gave 'em a bad lead, and they thought we were carrying something valuable." He paused, then studied Quintus with his eyes appraisingly narrow. "You an important man, Quintus?"

Quintus' unease turned into full-blown alarm. Could it be that it was him the bandits had been after? Perhaps the Nightingale had gotten word of him and wanted to stop him in his tracks. The prospect chilled him to the bone. It wasn't as if his arrival had been top secret, but neither should it have gained anyone's particular interest. Did the Nightingale have sources going right to the Imperial office now?

Yet, on the other hand, Sparrowhawk hadn't seemed to know who he was. Had she even been a part of this gang?

He gritted his teeth. Suddenly Meric's attempt to take her prisoner didn't seem like such a dumb idea.

He said nothing of this to the Sergeant though, just waved a petulant hand. "I'm done with this!" he snarled. "How soon can we get going again?"

Kayd eyed him a moment longer, a flash of a shrewd grin in his eyes. Then he shrugged. "Well, let's see, now. Hey, Sten!" he yelled past Quintus. "How fare the horsies?"

Quintus traced his gaze to follow the Sergeant's eyes. A particularly bemused-looking Nord was soothing one of the horses, still attached to the carriage. The other one lay on the ground not far off, taking its last feeble breaths. The man smoothed the neck of the live one. "This one's just about settling down. Miscounting the trauma, she's quite unharmed" He looked flatly over to the other one. "That one wasn't so lucky. Arrow right through the jugular."

Kayd smiled at Quintus, as if in anticipation of tonight's slice of horse haunch. "Well, seems as though we're short of a horse."

"Take mine," Sergeant Meric said abruptly.

Kayd raised a brow at the man. "In the mood for a walk?"

Meric ignored him, fixing Quintus an earnest regard. "Sir, I should probably ride with you in the carriage for the rest of the way."

Kayd snorted. "And what, hold his hand?"

"Shouldn't you have that treated?" Quintus cut in, pointing at the wound below Meric's shoulder. The bleeding had slowed down, but the cut was still far from closed, and would not be likely do so without healing. The entire arm below was crusted in drying gore.

Meric glanced down at it, and though the muscles on his cheeks bunched momentarily, he kept his expression stony. "Ah, this; it's just a scrape."

Quintus made of point to not pay attention to Kayd rolling his eyes. "Aye," he said, suddenly feeling his sore bottom very acutely. He would say nothing of it to anyone. "As you say."

It took less time than he thought to clear out the site of battle, to take the little there was worth taking from the bandits and to pile them up at the side of the road for scavengers to raid. No burials for the likes of them.

Once he finally got back in the carriage, Kayd and Bull across from him and the faithful, overzealous young Sergeant Meric carrying his saddlebags taking space at his side, it turned out that sitting down would be just as uncomfortable as he'd feared. But he would steel himself. That's what it meant to be civilized. There was a world of difference between a man such as him, a man of class, and these brutes who got their livelihood from the destruction of skin and bone by steel and iron. He would never let weakness of his flesh humiliate himself before such savages.

That being said, he could have torn Meric limb from limb with his own bare hands for a bottle of good, warming Colovian brandy.

 


	28. The Subterfuge

Shadya struggled to keep her legs from freezing up. Unlike herself, they lent a close ear to her most primary instincts and were therefore far more inclined to take her in the exact opposite direction to where she was headed. But there was nothing they could do. She was in control now and would not let her dastardly cowardice keep her from achieving her goal. She'd already killed someone to get this far. There was no turning back.

With a desultory nod to the guards at the entrance of the Understone Keep and a brief prayer of thanks to Rajhin when they seemed not to pay any mind to her, she entered. Her hair stood up in aversion as she stepped into the vast cavernous entrance hall with its dour atmosphere of cold, lifeless air. It bore the stench of the Dwemer, from the carvings in the massive stone columns flanking the entrance, to the adorned doorway ahead leading to the keep proper, down to the sheer heartless vibration of the whole stone tomb itself. The hallway opening to the left and right was only a step away from a cave, damaged flagstones interspersed with natural rock floor and piles of rubble by the walls. To the left, the entire way was cluttered with debris as if freshly excavated.

Two more guards stood by tall blazing braziers at the second entrance. Not shedding a glance in their direction, Shadya turned sharply to the right. Her paws ached in the narrow boots as she imitated the rigid mechanical way these watchdogs marched. She ascended the short flight of stairs leading to the Dwemer Museum, the first place where she was going to search. That, in her mind, was most likely where the jewel was kept. Though she entertained no hopes this would prove to be so easy.

Her heart guttered at the sight of another guard by the museum entrance, standing with arms crossed at his chest and feet wide apart in a very unwelcoming manner; but she kept on walking.

The guard's head snapped in her direction as she drew near. "What's this, now—where you headed?"

Shadya pulled up short. _Why to the museum of course, step out of the way please._ "Um." She cleared her throat. "Over here," she said, making her voice a hoarse whisper, only barely able to keep the tentative rising intonation from it.

She could almost hear the man frown underneath his helm. "What'd you say? Something wrong with your voice?"

"A touch of a cold," she croaked.

"Why don't you just head to the temple for a blessing?" asked the man.

"I'm . . . uh, wary of such things." She damn near flinched. _Don't go saying things like that!_

The Guard, however, seemed to make nothing of it, "Ah," he said. "Well, in that case you'll want to brew yourself an infusion of snowberry and dried yellow mountain flower. That is if you don't want to waste a day's pay for a potion."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks." Shadya made to pass the man.

He placed a booted foot between her and the door. "I still think you've got the wrong place, though. Entrance to the museum only with Calcelmo's explicit permit."

"The museum? Is that what this is?"

"Yeah. Where did you think . . . ? Oh, you must be the new fellow. Looking for the Jarl's throne room, yes? A bit early for a change of shift, maybe, but I'm sure one of the boys won't mind an early break."

Shadya tried to come up with a swift and equivocal excuse but her brain failed to give her anything to work with.

"You just walk back down and through the second entrance on the right, then just keep going straight; it's really easy to find."

"Uh, thanks," she muttered, then, not knowing what else to do, turned on her heel.

"No problem!"

_Uh huh. I thought I wasn't just going to dance in_. As often as not, Shadya hated being right.

Fresh out of ideas, she strode down the steps, feeling the cold stab of defeat. This wasn't going to work after all. She'd killed that poor fellow for no reason. There was no way she was going to get in that museum as a guard; they were not going to use a "rookie" like her for guarding Calcelmo's precious junkyard. And she sure as hell was not sticking around long enough for them to start trusting her.

Hoping that the guards downstairs were not going to pay attention to her walking back, she prepared to walk right back out the door, when she heard a shout from behind her. "Hey, down there! This one's new, and looking for the throne room. Would one of you lads assist him?"

Shadya glowered underneath the faceguard. _Void swallow all Alkosh-damned helpful busybodies!_

The other guard stirred. "Oh, sure thing. Just follow me." He beckoned Shadya after him through the entrance.

Before doing as told—dashing and running out seemed out of the question—Shadya looked toward the guard upstairs. He waved a hand at her as if to say, "You're quite welcome." Shadya returned the gesture. _Yeah, thanks a million, you meddling knucklehead you!_

Following, she stared at the back of the guard ahead, the memory of the gut-wrenching snap of a breaking neck springing to mind. Part of her was screaming for her to do it again— _and do it now!—_ but it would not help her here. She couldn't get away, the other guards would be on her within seconds. So instead of resisting, she decided to go with the flow of the moment. Who knew, maybe she'd figure out a way to turn this to her advantage.

A short passage opened into a vast hall. Five separate sets of stairs stood side by side, leading up to the gallery containing the palace proper. Up on the gallery, on individual platforms between the last two set of stairs on each side, stood two taller-than-man Dwarven automatons, the weapons imbedded in their arms—a blade and a crossbow—at the ready. Even inactive, the things chilled the blood in Shadya's veins. No non-living thing should be allowed to move about interacting with the world. And the fact that killing was the sole purpose of these particular metal monstrosities didn't help one whit.

She eyed the two killing machines nervously as she climbed the middlemost flight, feeling as though they were watching her. The ceiling above was a jumble of thick metal pipes, the purpose of which was a complete mystery to her, deafeningly noisy with continuous hiss and rattle. Puffs of steam shot out from junction points at steady intervals. All this machinery, still up and running after thousands of years since the disappearance of its masters, and no one even seemed to know what it was there for or even how it worked. If Shadya hadn't want to run screaming before, she certainly did now.

The Jarl's throne room was set up in three levels, a narrow middle platform in between the lowest level and the stone throne standing empty on its dais. With all the metal in the room—similar to bronze or copper in appearance but likely neither; not that Shadya was a metallurgist—from the big basket-like braziers, the two fat pipes in the ceiling, or the thing hanging above the throne looking like a giant bird-cage, the room was bathed in a warm golden light. Other than that, the ambience was anything but warm. Three impatient-looking men were waiting for an audience on the lowest floor, each seemingly trapped in their own world, not looking at anyone or saying a word.

Shadya's guide stopped short at the bottom of the stairs, gesturing for Shadya proceed. She gave the man an awkward nod and walked up. The two guards standing at opposite sides of the middle level shared a look, and she caught a whiff of puzzlement. That did not last for long, however, and the one right from her promptly detached himself from his post, whispering a quick "thanks" to Shadya in passing. She thought the other one seemed a bit disgruntled.

Unable to do anything else, Shadya took the departed man's place, setting herself in an immobile, assertive position, arms tucked behind her back so that the torn pieces of cloak covering them would not attract unwarranted attention. On a tall base next to her stood a marble sculpture of a man with a high forehead and a precipitous beak for a nose. The likeness of his highness Emperor Attrebus II. She scowled underneath her helm. _The bottomless vanity of men!_

The perceptibly restless men paid no attention to the guards' comings and goings. Two of them were obvious nobles, dressed in their fineries and exuding an air of superiority. Old men both, though the younger one with long silver locks and a flowing beard to match somehow managed to appear feebler and frailer than did the ancient man next to him, one with a shiny bald pate and what looked to be permanently bunched cheek muscles, burning resentment in his thin slits of pale eyes. The third man was a priest, garbed in tawny robes with a golden cowl pulled over his head. He seemed a bit less fidgety than the nobles, but from what Shadya could see of his face, he did not look content.

Seconds later, the Jarl entered. Despite that the straight-postured, middle-height woman was garbed in the immaculate clothes of a noble, with a silver coronet resting atop her wide brow, she looked as if she'd be more at home in a soldier's uniform. That wasn't to say she didn't carry herself in a stately manner, which she very much did. Without a sideways glance, she marched right past the stiffening old-timers. At her heel walked a giant young man armored from head to toe, the Jarl's housecarl. The fellow's head was a shaved chunk of cinder block on shoulders wide and square enough for a door frame. Judging by the close resemblance, kin to the Jarl.

Faleen strode up the stairs and sat down on her throne, making the simple gesture seem at once casual and ceremonious. They called this particular chair the Mournful Throne, which in Shadya's mind was an appropriate name for any seat of power. There was a regular chair likewise made of stone—and looking every bit as uncomfortable—sitting empty beside Shadya, but the housecarl did not take it. Instead he stood his bulk on the other side by the second guard, eyeballing the finely dressed old coxcombs as though they were clumps of horse dung staining the carpet.

The stouter-looking one of the two took a couple steps up, forced to look way up at the Jarl. He inclined his head ever so slightly. Despite the disingenuous amenity on his face, the tightness around his mouth never went away. "First of all, let me say that I am sorry to see that Raerek is still feeling unwell," he said in an unctuous voice that did nothing to conceal the seething antagonism underneath. "May he recover—"

"You and I both know Raerek won't be recovering from this one, Thongvor," the Jarl said curtly. This man, then, would be Thongvor Silver-Blood, the long-standing political head of the most influential family in Markarth. "Now, unless you've come to inform me of your interest of taking his place as my steward, I suggest we get to business."

Thongvor's mouth went, if possible, even tighter. "Aye," he said. "As you wish, Faleen."

" _Jarl_ Faleen," grated the housecarl, his voice deep enough to shake the palace's foundation.

"Of course." The old man's head dipped a bit deeper, his eyes growing ever harder. "My apologies . . . _Jarl_ Faleen."

The Jarl rolled her eyes, but said nothing. She smelled of irritation with an undercurrent of earnest exasperation, but all this remained bounded by her firm expression.

This was truly a handsome woman, Shadya thought, a fact easily dismissed at first glance. Well into her middle years, but few wore their years as lithely. The cast of her weathered features held beauty not brought about by serendipity of birth or the verdure of youth, but rather forged by the trials of battles fought and won. Amazingly, they bore almost no scars, as if the unyielding stare of those black eyes could ward off a blade as much as the man holding it. Her bearings, while tranquil, exuded the soundness of solid earth.

Feeling her thief-instincts tickle, Shadya did her best not to let her eyes linger on the precious stones gleaming on the bands of gold and silver on the Jarl's fingers or the large one on a pendant round her neck.

"Business, then," Thongvor said. "Where shall we begin?"

"The refugees!" spat the other man, sounding like a bottle bursting with pressure that could no longer be contained.

"I am shocked and surprised," said Faleen flatly.

Thongvor laid a calming hand on the younger man's shoulder, though this only seemed to weigh the already stooped fellow further down. "Please excuse Thorald," he said. "He's not been feeling well lately." His tone, although conciliatory, contained a clear warning subtext meant for the man.

"I'm fine!" growled Thorald, jerking his shoulder free.

So. Thorald Grey-Mane. That would explain the man's general disposition. This was another bit of the local history Shadya had absorbed while listening to people talk. Thorald had been one of the clans to side with Ulfric during the war. And though Elisif had offered a pardon for the families in question, it had not been without a price. The Grey-Manes, for one, had been forced to leave Whiterun where they had lived for generations. They'd relocated here in Markarth beside another humiliated family, the Silver-Bloods, who'd been allowed to keep all their previous holdings and assets provided they offered the new High Queen a formal apology and a most humble atonement. Although it was undeniably curious how Elisif had not seemed to mind the two ex-rebels inhabiting the same city, an obviously shrewd ruler from the beginning, she'd no doubt had a plan. Perhaps she'd meant it as another humiliation, the way she didn't seem to consider them worthy of her worry.

Thorald himself had been personally pardoned, despite fighting—or trying to, at any rate—on the Stormcloaks' side. He'd been imprisoned for a few years, long enough for people to start thinking he'd spend the rest of his life rotting in the Castle Dour. But to everybody's surprise, they'd finally let him walk free. Then, because his father Vignar had died during his imprisonment, and since his uncle Eorlund showed no interest in the position, he became the leading member of his clan. But the years in prison had left their mark on him, as had the loss of influence as a repercussion of his disloyalty to the lawful rule. The man released had had little fight left in him, and the years following had seemed to age him doubly that they normally would. In short, his spirit was gone.

This, at any rate, was what they said. But from close up, Shadya had to wonder. From what she could sense, this man hated the High Queen with a special sort of passion, and would do anything in his power, no matter how diminished, to oppose her. Little wonder, as his entire remaining life, the fact he was still breathing and walking around, could easily be seen as just another humiliation by Elisif. The fact that this beaten, weakened man was the head of his clan effectively stripped them the prestige they had once known. Looking at him now—not to mention _smelling_ him—his bitterness was plain for all, shining bright and sharp from between the cracks of his brittle exterior.

"I've told you both a dozen times before," Faleen said tiredly and mechanically, "that the refugees are here to stay. I've agreed on this with her highness, and she agrees the situation in Hammerfell—"

"Her highness!" Thorald sneered, evading Thongvor's hand. " _Her_ highness! Does Elisif rule the Empire now?"

"This issue is between Hammerfell and Skyrim; it has nothing to do with the Emper—"

"It always comes down to the Emperor, woman!" Faleen seemed to take Thorold's recurring interruptions in her stride. "Do you still not see that everything we decide here will most certainly come to affect the whole Empire?" He paused for breath, but continued before anyone else could speak. "The Dominion! All this is exactly according to their plans! To weaken us!"

"Weaken us you say?" said Faleen with a slightly arching eyebrow. "Funny that you should say that."

"You know," Thongvor broke in. "Despite his undiplomatic way of going about it," he cocked a reproaching eye at the other man, "Thorald does have a solid point."

Faleen's brow only rose higher. "Does he, now?"

"Very much so." The look Thongvor gave the woman was undeniably earnest, but somehow came across as rehearsed. "There are those who say that the Dominion is behind sending those refugees, to cause an internal schism."

"Then they have truly proven themselves to be masterful tacticians with superb oversight," Faleen replied drily.

"Not to mention," the man went on, as if she'd never spoken, "that by accepting them, we've effectively taken a step to get between Hammerfell and the Dominion. Honestly, do we really want to bring this war into Skyrim?"

"What war? Far as I know, there's peace." She waved a peremptory hand to silence the man's objections. "I know, I know; you've let me know full well how you feel about it. But nonetheless—if there _is_ a war, then it's _already_ in Skyrim, as our fate is closely tied with the rest of the Empire's. No, no, let me finish. So, you both imply that by taking these refugees we're doing the Dominion's bidding? Whereas I—"

"We're sapping our—"

" _Whereas I,_ _"_ Faleen went on _,_ "have heard others say precisely the opposite. That the Thalmor are actively spreading propaganda to cause people to dislike the Redguard, to oppose our taking of the refugees."

"I, for one," Thorald said stiffly, seeming to have pulled himself together, "could tell you a thing or two about the Thalmor. I can most assuredly guarantee that I'm no friend of the Dominion . . ."

"And yet being imprisoned by them did nothing to stop you from running to fight for Ulfric as soon as you were released."

The man's newfound composure crumbled away. "That has nothing to—"

"It has _every_ thing to do with it, and you know it. What do you suppose the Dominion would have done had Ulfric won? Do you still not think they had a very clear vested interest in the whole conflict?"

"That is highly contestable," insisted Thongvor, while Thorald beside him was turning bright red, from anger or embarrassment or both.

"You _would_ say that."

"I . . ." Similar crimson-faced inability to speak suddenly seemed to claim the other man as well.

While the nobles were struggling with their wounded egos, Faleen directed her attention to the so far silent priest. "So how about you, Brother? This is the first I've seen you here about this. Did these two gentlemen talk you out of your crypt to get behind their cause?"

"My cause is my own, Jarl," said the priest equably. "My concern, as always, is with the spiritual side of the matter." He paused, and the Jarl motioned for him to go on. "After all, we know that many Redguards—no offence to you, of course—harbor certain heterodox beliefs. We have just recently manage to root out similarly heretical practices on our own turf—" Saying this, he stole an odd glance at frowning Thongvor. "—and now of all times would be deeply unfortunate if these dangerous alien teachings should get a foothold here. These seem to be fertile times indeed for dark forces to spread their evil lies. In fact, I've heard most disconcerting rumors from Morrowind, such that speak of a rising new rampant, hostile political and militant force unaligned with any of their great houses, members of which avow themselves to one or more of the Daedra lords."

"Come on, man," growled Thongvor, fully recovered by now. "Bugaboos and bugbears! What has that got to do with anything real?" He waved his hand bellicosely to dismiss the priest's attempt to defend his position, and focused on the Jarl. "Really, even disregarding the incendiary political aspect, I believe the true issue here to be primarily financial."

His grievance rudely swept aside, the priest snorted at the man in a manner decidedly unclerical. "Financial? Your brother send you here today?"

Thongvor gave the priest a glare and continued, true to his style, as if the man had never spoken. "Prosperity and tranquility, as we well know, walk hand in hand."

"What are you getting at now?" asked the Jarl wearily.

The man pulled himself to his full height. "We are sapping our scant resources on these refugees," he said. "I mean, my heart is with them. I feel deeply for their sufferings, I really do! But there _are_ those who say—not me, mind you, never me!—that it's rather peculiar how the Jarl's coffers seem to have enough gold to pay for the upkeep of these—and I do apologize— _parasites_ when she can't even afford to pay for soldiers to efficiently take care of the now two-decades-old Forsworn problem."

The priest snorted louder.

"Do you deny that they're a problem?" the old man demanded. "Year by year they have grown increasingly bolder! They're practically unstoppable by now: robbing honest folks left and right, impeding trade. It's to a point that they've basically chased the regular bandits out of the Reach!"

Shadya smiled. She'd thought that Thongvor's earlier arguments had sounded desultory and opportunistic, as if he were only saying the things he did to appease his more vehement companion. But now, mentioning the Forsworn, he positively lit up, his odor shifting and heartbeat strengthening. So here now was the true meat in his grinder. Trade. Money. It figured.

She fidgeted as her tail, tucked uncomfortably in her pant leg, suddenly sprung to life, trying to wag itself in the confined space. She shifted the leg, trying to adjust the pesky appendage. Faleen frowned at her momentarily, but thankfully soon turned her attention back to the men before her.

"Speaking of which," Thongvor said. "I believe we sent Elisif a letter regarding these matters."

"That's right!" chimed in Thorald gruffly, his face still as red as a tomato.

"Oh yes," Faleen said. "And she did pen a reply. Want me to reiterate it to you?"

"Beg pardon," replied Thongvor. "but I'd much rather see the letter with my own eyes."

Faleen's brow rose anew. "You doubt my words?"

"Never me. It's just . . . well, tales have a way of changing their meaning in the telling. I'd be happier to take a look straight into the horse's mouth."

"Aye," Faleen sighed, "very well then." She stood up and walked down from the throne, waving—much to her dismay—at Shadya. "You, follow." And as the housecarl made to join her, she raised a halting hand. "No. You stay here and keep company to our esteemed guests." The man complied, standing there with his massive arms crossed and affording the men in question a trifle less than amicable eyeful.

Shadya had no choice but to follow the Jarl. Though, in spite of her apprehension, she felt a warm tickle of amusement about the way the two haughty men seem to shrivel in the contemptuous blaze of the housecarl's hard eyes. They were both suddenly finding lots of interesting things in the room to look at.

As they passed him, the priest, more or less exempted from the mismatched staring-contest, gave Shadya's concealed arms a curious look, and suddenly she couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

Faleen was muttering under her breath once they were out of the throne room. Shadya was surprised as she felt the woman's ire suddenly sweep over her. This one concealed her true feelings astonishingly well; so well, in fact, that she hid them from herself when it was needed. It was simply stupefying to think what sort of strength of will that had to take. Despite their obvious failings, humans had the habit of surprising Shadya. Sometimes she even thought that their emotions and passions exceeded those of the Khajiit in complexity! But only sometimes.

Out the door, they turned right. Following the Jarl across the gallery, they passed a sleeping dog curled up next to a brazier. The dumb beast was fast asleep, teeth flashing from behind twitching gums and legs kicking air as if on the run. A bit further on, another one lay awake beside a stone table and chairs, its head resting on its front paws. The dog's shaggy head snapped up at their approach, then cocked in their direction. At Shadya. The next second, the animal was on its feet, growling and barking at the instinctively reeling Khajiit. She was that close to hissing at it.

"Rolf!" Faleen snapped. "Come and control your mutt!"

From a door to the front left, a burly man rushed to the scene, hastily sucking on his thick fingers. He bowed his head down obsequiously. "Terribly sorry, Jarl Faleen. I don't know what came over her. Kili!" he growled, and the dog's ears drooped. "Shut the hell up! What's the matter with you?" Kili sat down humbly, tail tucked under its behind, but the fangs were still sticking out from underneath its top lip.

"I've let you keep the pooches around provided that they be kept in order," the Jarl said. "Is this your idea of that?"

The man looked down at his feet, face flushed. "Understood. Deeply sorry. Won't happen again, I swear."

"Consider this my final warning," the Jarl said icily, turning to walk to a large door to the right. "Should have gotten rid of those after Igmund died," she muttered while unlocking the door. "I'm definitely a cat person."

Stupidly, Shadya felt like smiling a delighted smile at that, but caught herself. Behind her, the man was scolding the humbled dog. _Serves that bitch right!_

The Jarl's quarters were fine enough to host a queen, Shadya thought. Well, a queen who was a devoted masochist, for the furniture here too was made of stone. The substantial hearth at the opposite corner from the door provided for sufficient heating, but the air in the room was still unbearably humid. This was explained by the subterranean river that cascaded in at the back of the chamber, water gurgling as it lunged down the roughly thirty foot drop. Despite the fact that it was all supposed to represent luxury, Shadya could not even begin to understand how anyone could stand to sleep in such conditions. At least the Jarl's bed, situated on a tall stone shelf, was the traditional wooden sort.

"Wait here", Faleen said as she set out to climb the short stairs to the shelf. As if Shadya had been intending to follow her there.

Eyeing the waters with distaste, she suddenly grew curious. The waters burrowing through the bedrock must have originated in the same place as the waterfalls outside. Had the Dwemer felt affinity toward flowing water, as a sort of symbol of change or somesuch, or had it simply been out of necessity—

She blinked, losing her train of thought as an abrupt idea—a particularly discomfiting one at that— burgeoned in her mind. It made her hackles rise, but she couldn't deny that there was something there.

Behind her, the Jarl cleared her throat. There was a folded piece of paper in her hand. "Are you quite done here, or . . . could we go, maybe?"

Embarrassed, Shadya bowed her head and then followed the Jarl, who was shaking her head, out of the chambers. As they passed the man and the dog, the animal revealed its teeth at her, snarling. Rolf struck the beast over its head, and it yelped. Despite everything, Shadya couldn't help feeling sorry for the dumb creature.

_Still, I might have to do something about that . . ._

Back in the throne room, she grinned to find the housecarl still glaring at the two noblemen whose rapt attentions were directed at anything but the hulking, scowling man. Oddly, the priest seemed to continue to be excluded from all this. Thongvor's countenance lit up—insofar as it was able to—as he saw Faleen approach, spying the letter she held. He reached out an expectant hand, but the Jarl sailed right past him. She sat down on the throne, unfolded the paper, and, without preamble, started to read in a matter-of-fact inflection.

The letter contained no unnecessary salutations. " _I have received yet another complaint from you regarding the quote unquote dire situation of Markarth_. _I must confess that I'm not exactly sure what it is that you expect me to do. That is to say, surely you don't truly imagine that I would perform a mass deportation after I've given my word for the safety of these people here in Skyrim? Do you, perhaps, have it in your heads that I've made such a decision all by myself—as the fitful little girl you must surely be assured I am—before requesting the Emperor's authorization, and might just suddenly come to a change of heart if wise enough men shall me so persuade to do? I will, at least, choose to respect your combined intelligence by answering my own question: certainly not! And as to your earnest request that I personally travel there to observe the situation and thus become convinced of the verity of your grievances, I regret that my other duties make it utterly impossible to detach myself for such a visitation. But if you intend to keep pestering me about this much longer, I may just consider sending my court wizard Sybille Stentor there to conduct an investigation of her own_." Faleen paused, her lips twitching almost imperceptibly, as if she were suppressing a smile.

The reaction of the audience, on the other hand, was anything but amused. Thorvald flinched at the mention of the court wizard, and even Thongvor appeared taken aback. And the shift in their odors added volumes to the story already told by their expressions.

The latter was quicker to recover, however. He held his head defiantly high. "She taunts us," he said coolly. "As if our cause were not just and true."

Faleen looked up from the paper. "But there's more."

"Oh, aye?"

" _On the other hand_ ," the Jarl went on, " _I have reassessed my position as to your complaints about the Reachmen. You'll doubtless be glad to hear that, as I write, I have given an order to send a unit of legionaries to aid you with them. Please take this as a gesture of my goodwill, sympathy, and such. I sincerely hope this will be the last I will hear of you. In the name of Emperor Attrebus II of Tamriel: The High Queen and the Governor and Protector of the Imperial province of Skyrim, Elisif the Fair_."

Faleen lowered the paper, regarding the men with her lips pursed and one eyebrow expectantly raised.

Thongvor extended his hand "Can I please see it?"

Rolling her eyes, the Jarl handed the note out for her housecarl to take. The man snatched it like piece of garbage, trudged down a few moody steps to shove the paper at Thongvor as if at a dustbin.

The old man took the letter and immediately retreated from the surly giant, as though afraid of getting bitten. He quickly perused the note, the muscles of his face slacking for the first time. "Aha," he muttered. "Really. So it is true." He then looked up at Faleen, frowning. "But we haven't seen any legionaries," he said with apprehension.

"I was just brought that by a much winded courier yesterday," the Jarl explained, "so I assume they're on their way."

"Ah," said Thongvor. He very nearly smiled. "That would explain it." He looked at the letter again. "Well this, at least, is good news. In fact, this is better than—"

"Excuse me," the priest interjected, "but this seems to only deal with one of our problems."

"That _bitch_!"

Everyone's head turned abruptly in Thorvald's direction. The man's shaky head was bright purple, rageful veins bulging underneath his parchment skin. The men around him wore expressions a trifle shocked, but Jarl Faleen's only response was a curiously creased brow. The man, it seemed, had no interest in mitigating his outburst. "That devious harpy! She actively refuses to see our side of this! She's doing it on purpose, I know it!"

Thongvor, his expression getting graver, nodded his head. "Ah, yes. Well, that is unfortunate." He did not sound overly zealous about it.

" _Unfortunate_ , you say?" Thorald sneered. He waved his arms at Faleen. "Neither she nor you seem to understand. We know next to nothing about these people. They could include spies for all we know! _Terrorists_!"

"Some of them could well even be Daedra worshipers!" the priest added.

"They _are_ a financial strain," Thongvor tried, thought the tentativeness of his tone made it sound more like a question.

The Jarl's expression grew exasperated. "Look—"

"You with your finances!" Thorald snapped. "All you truly care about is your family's gold!"

"If you could just . . . for one minute."

"Excuse me?" Thongvor said with unconvincing umbrage. "I'll have you know—"

"Gentlemen . . . please!"

They were all shouting on top of each other now, unwilling and even unable to hear the Jarl trying to wedge in a sideways word.

Finally, the housecarl drew a sharp breath. "SHUT UP!" he bellowed.

Suddenly, it got very quiet. The man's face was darker than ever, and his eyes could have cut paper. "Or I'll drag each and all of you barking hounds out of here and dump you straight into the river."

Bold words from a common soldier to highly influential and petty nobles, Jarl or no Jarl for relative. But neither of the said nobles seemed to be of the inclination to challenge him.

The Jarl herself was on the verge of grinning. "Thank you," she said. "Now, if I may speak?" She paused, and no one offered to interrupt. "What I was going to say is this." She inhaled deeply. "You all well know that I'm a soldier rather than a politician—"

"We know," Thongvor said empathetically, giving the glaring housecarl a wary eye. "And that is why we—"

"Let me finish. And _as_ a soldier, my sense of tactics differ from the usual style of politics and governance. But all I can say is that my instinct tells me the last thing we want is to let ourselves become divided, to start and to continue fighting amongst ourselves. It is as if . . ." She paused again, looking down at her hands as if gathering strength. After a few seconds, she sighed and continued in a lower voice. "As you all know, there was a brief period after the Great War when Hammerfell nearly became unified under one king. But then the man who'd been raised his entire life for the position decided to flee, to abandon those who had intended to raise him to the position. And so the land fell once more into petty rivalry and competition—a weakness the Dominion chose to once again exploit at a later occasion. Rumor has it that the man who would have ruled us is still alive and well, and some even say he abides somewhere here in Skyrim."

"Yes," Thongvor said. "I think we've all heard the legend of Arathan—"

"Do not speak his name!" Thongvor's mouth snapped shut. And although Faleen looked as if she regretted having snapped, she made no apologies. She remained silent for a while, then sighed again. "Look, my point here is, had Hammerfell stood united, the outcome of the war might have been much different. Who knows, they might have served a more severe blow than we can guess." Another silence, which no one tried to challenge. "What I'm saying is our best weapon against the Dominion is unity: that we stand as one. This is the last thing they want—the last thing they _expect_. And here we are squandering our energy—"

"Do you speak of the unity of Skyrim or the unity of the Empire?" asked Thorvald, his face a hard mask of barely suspended rancor, a grim set to his mouth. "Because from where I stand, those two are not the same thing."

"True unity can only be unity under the divines!" interposed the priest. "Under one shared faith. One shared code of belief."

"Prosperity, as always, is the true guarantee of unity," added Thongvor predictably. At least he sounded like he meant it.

Shadya heaved out an exasperated sigh, as the quarreling seemed to start all over again. _Alkosh have mercy,_ _how much longer is this going to last?_

As it would turn out, for quite some time still.

* * *

Merard strolled purposefully toward the Understone Keep, his nose stuck so high in the air he had to rely on his instincts and his luck to not run into anything. The hem of the fine silk cape topping his expensive attire flapped in the wayward gust.

As a child, he'd spent countless hundreds of hours observing people on the streets, while trying to spend as little time as possible within the premises of his orphanage where beatings, bullying, and abuse were bywords for passing time. And you could only take so much of those. Consequently, he'd ended up with an extensive record of the varied ways in which the people passed themselves along, more often than not influenced—or rather determined—by their social standing, whether imagined or real. Where the lowest classes mostly trudged along with no attempt at taking any more space than necessary—eyes cast down, avoiding undue attention—the more important folks, or those trying to pass as such, exaggerated just about everything in their movement, acting as if it was assured that any and all potential obstacles would not fail to remove themselves from the way.

The latter was precisely the impression he sought to convey. As he marched past the guards at the front door of the keep, he was pleased to sense them tensing up. This was the usual way that people responded to the proximity of nobles and the like, as they were an unpredictable—and if you asked the people, _untrustworthy_ —bunch.

Merard stepped into the stale coolness of the palace, the musty pong of dust greeting him at the entrance. A second gateway led into the palace proper, two guards standing beside it. He stopped in front of the guards, hand resting on his hip, looking at them down his nose. "Calcelmo?"

The guards looked at each other, then the other one nodded toward Merard's left, at a softly sloping passage littered with large hunks of rubble. "Over there."

Without further word, Merard swirled, his cape fluttering, and made toward where the man had gestured.

"Um, just one second sir—"

Merard spun to face the man. "And what," he snapped, giving the guard the cold eye, "might you still want with me . . . _sir_?" He'd adopted the accent of old Breton nobility with its nasal intonation and guttural r's, supposedly bearing the closest resemblance to his people's ancient tongue, though Merard had his doubts about such claims.

The man faltered. "Er, have you . . . Ah, never mind. Go on ahead, sir."

Sniffing, Merard walked on. He heard the guard mutter something incendiary to his partner, and stifled a smirk.

The passage led to the excavation base of the ruin Nchuand-Zel, an ancient Dwemer castle that was the pet project of the Court Wizard Calcelmo. The base was a massive cavern at least a hundred yards across, with the ceiling so high as to be undiscernible through the miasma of suspended dust. The cavern was cut across in the middle by a wide gash, a subterranean river by the roar of it. A long bridge spanned the river, leading to the front face of the castle carved into the stone in the style of every other Dwemer building. The castle entrance was flanked by stone rotunda-like structures on tall stands, connected to the rest of the building by winding stairs, and guarded by a pair of Dwemer spheres standing on podiums on each side of the bridge.

One of the many things that Alabistair Adrognese had made him learn about were the Dwemer, what was known about their history, their magic, their society, and the like. Thinking back to those lessons, sheer torture at the time, had given Merard an idea. Perhaps he would finally be able to put to use those countless wasted hours and the pain of having to digest long pits of dry, useless details. He had a plan. Now it remained to be seen how well he could bluff his way through.

To the front-right on this side of the brook resided Calcelmo's work station, comprised of an alchemy lab and an arcane enchanter. The Altmer himself was currently hunched over the enchanter, a perfectly ordinary-looking, if a bit rusty, iron sword lying on it.

Smiling to himself, Merard rehashed his role and strode to stand behind the wizard. Feet set apart and chin tilted, he cleared his throat.

Calcelmo gave no sign of notice.

Merard cleared his throat louder, adding, "Ex _cuse_ me!"

Still bent over the table, Calcelmo turned his frown on the finely dressed Merard. Though his lips did not move, Merard could swear he heard the man grunt, "What do you want?"

Merard flashed his smuggest smile. "I am here."

The Altmer's tilted yellow eyes narrowed only a hint, the waxy skin on his brow creasing ever so slightly. "I can see that," he said. Then, without another word, he returned to his craft.

Merard moved not a muscle and just stood there as he had, all raised chins and simpers, as thought waiting for the world to revolve to catch up with him.

And sure enough, a few seconds later Calcelmo's head popped up again. "Why, again," he said, "are you here?" He looked askance over his shoulder at Merard. Despite the Court Wizard's ageless features, Merard could sense the nearly imaginably long span of years under his belt. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Why, I'm Mordoryan Masolaude!" Merard passingly worried he overdid the accent when pronouncing—in truth, _proclaiming_ —the name. "Here for your audience. You got my letter?"

Calcelmo's brow creased in earnest. " _Who_? What letter?"

"Who—" Merard spluttered. "I sent it a good two weeks ago! Ah! I tell you I should have had that messenger-boy flogged beforehand—just to make sure! I should have known!"

As he watched the confounded-looking Calcelmo frown at his profuse litany of curses, inside Merard felt like chuckling. Finally, he pretended to calm down. "I'm terribly sorry. But this means so much to me and— Ah!" He cursed again.

"Can you please tell me what this is about?" Calcelmo said. "I've plenty of work still to—"

"I've come here all the way from High Rock. From Camlorn to be specific, and on foot, mostly! I'm a scholar specialized in Dwemer history, and have planned to journey here for years! And now—finally!" He spread his arms to encompass the whole cavern, gazing around as if this dusty, dank hole in the rock was a paradise long lost and now found. "I am here." He made sure to retain the haughty tone in his voice. Putting on airs and affected nobility generally worked better when trying to make an impression. A scruffy and dusty, penniless scholar would be much easier to ignore.

Calcelmo, however was starting to look impatient. "Uh-huh. And what—"

"I'm in _awe_ of your work!" Merard breathed out. He walked over to the wizard, captured the man's cold hands in his—Calcelmo was too surprised for more than desultory resistance—and looked up at his bemused aspect with wide eyes. "I cannot tell you how long I've dreamt of this day, that I would once stand in front of the great Calcelmo!" A sense of being flattered flashed there amid the confusion, and, with a feeling of triumph, Merard knew he had to press on. He made his lower lip tremble. "Ah, I promised myself I would keep my composure!" He wondered if he would actually be able to squeeze out a tear.

Seemed as though he did not need to go that far. Retrieving his hands, Calcelmo frowned thoughtfully. "Masolaude, is it?" he asked. "I regret I can't say I've ever heard of you."

"Oh! I wouldn't have expected you to have heard of my silly little pokings-around."

"Might I, perchance, know any of your associates?"

"Oh!" Merard went into his coat pocket, fishing out a piece of paper. "I do have a letter of recommendation from Rerlas Perrick, a famed scholar in my land and my personal tutor."

Calcelmo took the letter. "Ah, I see. I've heard of him, or course."

Merard smiled. There, of course, was no Rerlas Perrick. Rerlas had been the name of a teacher in his orphanage, one who'd had a special predilection for beating young boys. Perrick had been a dog of his grandfather; a dumb, yappy little pooch. That Merard presented himself as someone well-known and connected was of the essence, as those sort of people were better valued as connections and hence were more likely suffered. No self-respecting scholar would ever admit to not knowing a reputable colleague. Nor would they be so quick to dismiss a student of theirs.

"And what is it," Calcelmo asked, looking up from the letter, "that you require?"

"Oh, hardly anything. All I really ask is a chance to take of look at your work here. Bother you with some questions. If this was not entirely too much to demand?"

"Unfortunately, I haven't prepared to see anyone," Calcelmo said. "I was in the middle of some work—"

"Not to worry! This is all entirely my own fault . . . for trusting that little—" The guttural curse he muttered then was in a language entirely of his own invention. He smiled a tight-lipped smile at the frowning Altmer. "Anyway, I can wait!"

"I might be able to find time later. I could give you a small tour, perhaps. Answer what questions you might have in mind."

"You would?" Merard beamed. "Ah, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what this means to me. And there's absolutely no hurry. I've actually spent a day and night traveling, and must require to get some much needed rest as soon as I can. Evening, I've found, is usually best for our kind of work anyway."

"Yes, I concur," said Calcelmo. "I do tend to follow a rather late schedule myself."

Merard had known this already. He inclined his head. "As do I."

"We are agreed, then."

"Yes," Merard said. "Yes, sure. Of course! I shall return, say, at midnight?"

"Ah, well, suppose that would be late enough."

"Splendid! Until then!"

"I will be here."

Merard walked away, satisfied. The obvious advantage of being taught to empty out his personality, to become as nothing in regards to a constant persona, was the derivative ability to become anything at all, to assume any guise. These were the situations where such an ability came in handy. But then his work had barely even started.

* * *

Shadya sighed deeply. Once she'd _finally_ gotten out of the torture chamber that was the Jarl's throne room—and it had turned out that the crotchety old nobles and the sanctimonious priest were only the _first_ in line to bitch at Faleen!—Shadya had formed a mental beeline to the place in the hall of the dead wherein she'd squirreled what was left of her robes. She needed to get out of this confining, suffocating guard outfit, and she needed to do it fast before anyone pinned her for another excruciating duty. Not to mention before anyone decided to present her with some inconvenient questions.

She trooped toward the outer door, heart pounding in her chest at the prospect of once more tasting fresh air, when a figure swooped past her from the right. She pulled short. The short man did not appear to notice her there so wrapped up he seemed to be in his own importance. Rarely had Shadya seen anyone exude such an unwavering sense of self-value. She blinked in surprise, frowning deeply after the man who slammed the doors wide open and marched on.

But it hadn't been the man's superior airs that had stopped her short. It was the fact that she _knew_ him. She was fairly sure of this, at least, despite his odd code of dress and mode of conduct.

_What was he doing in here?_

Her earlier worries forgotten, Shadya followed the man outside. She couldn't even be bothered to take notice of the guards outside, her eye fixed on the distancing strutting figure. The man stomped down the stairs, forcing a group of guards to disperse and let him through. The guards stared after him, but no one said a word. He did not even appear to see them.

Shadya followed the man down to the northeastern side of the city. He was walking toward the gate, and she was prepared to follow him out of the city if needed. Such was her curiosity that she was prepared to postpone shedding the guard's getup.

That, however, proved to be unnecessary. The man walked straight to the local inn—Shadya thought his swagger peeled away step by step, mostly gone by now—and entered. She did not follow him in, and instead walked past to continue circling around toward the Dockside. If the man was staying at the inn, he'd stick around for a while longer. There was ample time for Shadya to go and get changed. But after that, she'd need to get to the bottom of this.

 


	29. The Waylay

As the southern border of the Pale blended with that of Whiterun Hold, and as the mountainous pine forests melted into barren, yellow grass-tufted rocky plains, the terrain thawed out accordingly. Though Ariela experienced trading the shelter of trees for the vast open sky looming above as oppressive at first, she was glad her face no longer burned from the bitter wind, and that she was able to incrementally stop hunching against the weather. And once she got used to the feeling of being in plain sight for any potential predator lurking about, she came to realize that she herself would have a better chance of spotting any hostiles in the open country.

Then, not long after she had marveled at how peacefully the trip had gone overall, her attention was drawn to a figure on the road a couple hundred feet ahead of them. Somebody, presumably a man, armored from head to toe staggered from one side of the road to the other, as though drunk out of his mind. The figure had his sword out, waving it, it would appear, toward the approaching women. Ariela could hear him yelling something, but could not make out the words.

She gave Runa a worried glance, but the Nord's expression was unreadable. The woman's blue eyes followed the quickly nearing figure with an impassive readiness, but nothing about her indicated that she bothered to spare the whole scene much of a thought.

"What do you think?" Ariela asked.

Runa shrugged. "A random loon," she said, as if it were a matter of course.

"What should we do?"

Runa looked at Ariela, her face still not betraying any emotion. "You hang back and let me handle this."

Ariela nodded numbly, in full agreement.

The man closed in, and Runa positioned herself a horse length ahead of the Scholar. When he got close enough, they could hear the phrasal content of the madman's ranting. "Never should have come here!" he clamored. It was a particularly stupid thing to say, Ariela thought, as this was a public road.

"Good afternoon, brother!" Runa called diplomatically. "We're not looking for trouble."

The man carried a round iron shield which he banged on a couple times with his short and wide iron blade. "Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" he bellowed, showing no sign of having heeded, or even heard, Runa's appeasements. Clearly this one didn't have all of his marbles intact.

Runa sighed, hanging her head for a second. She then dismounted, started to slowly approach the armored bedlamite. She did still, however, keep her swords in their scabbards, though she had her hands tensed up by her sides.

"Is that the best you've got?" the man yelled.

"Look, friend," Runa said patiently. "Why don't you just walk away, and we'll be just like none of this ever happened."

"Coward!" came what might or might not have been a reply to what had actually been said.

"Here's the thing: you don't want to do this, alright?"

At that, the man merely roared, raising his sword. He then charged towards Runa, and Ariela's heart jumped into her throat. The Nord simply stepped out of the way with ease, as though giving way to a very slow moving elderly person.

The man took a moment to regain his impetus, then prepared for another offensive.

Runa raised her hands. "I'm willing to overlook that one," she said. "Just don't try it again."

The man tried again, missing just as clearly as with his first attempt. This time Runa added to her sidestep a push of her foot on the man's backside, sending him toppling onto his knees on the ground.  
"Alright, last warning," she said, a shadow creeping into her voice. Her hands were now caressing the grips of her blades. "Do not get up and attempt another one."

After catching a few breaths, the man roared anew. He tore himself up and tried to run his unwilling adversary though, his sword held point-first. At that, Runa whipped out both her blades in a motion quick as lightning. She used the left one to easily swat aside the man's clumsily pointed weapon, and with the other jabbed at his thigh, finding an opening in his armor. A gush of blood and a pained scream from the man, and he staggered to the side. It didn't take long for him to get back his bearings, however, and he tried another attack, this time trying for an overhead attack with Runa's head as the target. She raised her left sword, stopping the blow cold. A powerful clang sounded off the face of the crag beside which Ariela stood watching, stiff with tension—loud enough to make her left ear ring.

Runa easily pushed the man's blade aside, then started a counter-attack. It was as swift as it was relentless. One after another, her swords pummeled into the man's armor, pushing him backwards by the blow. He tried an ungainly swing at Runa, but his blade was effortlessly tossed aside. With each clout that Runa dealt, she let out a cry; the fury audible in it wasn't anything Ariela had heard from the woman so far, and this gave her a mounting sense of unease.

It was over as quickly as it has started. The man was instantly played out of the game, his sword flying off to one side to clatter onto the rocky ground, and his shield hanging impotently from his hand, serving no purpose. Runa finished her series of wallops directed mainly at the man's chest. She then swung behind her adversary, flipped her right-hand sword and rammed it point-first through the man's throat. The blade pierced his head and came out through the top of his skull, hoisting his helmet in the air. The man's eyes rolled back, the corners of his mouth convulsed, and two rivulets of blood loped down his chin. Runa held him there for a short while, then pulled out her sword and pushed the corpse down on the ground with her chest. The cadaver's leg twitched, and there was a loud, nauseating hissing sound as the remaining air in its lungs slowly leaked out though the new opening under the chin. Ariela had to press a hand over her mouth not to retch.

After wiping the killing-sword on the dead man's breeches, Runa sheathed it along with the other one. She looked down upon the corpse, her face grim. "I _told_ you!"" she growled. This time there was no playfulness or sense of a game won in her voice, just anger. She shook her head slowly, then started walking back towards Ariela. The look in her eyes was as dark as the night. "Bloody fools," she muttered. She gave Ariela but the briefest of glances, then hopped back on Frost. Wordlessly, she snapped the reins, and her bulky white stallion set out.

Ariela felt numb but spurred her own horse to keep behind after the now gloomy Nord. She passed the corpse still jerking on the ground. She still wasn't used to seeing a freshly killed person, albeit that she'd only encountered her first one just a couple days ago. Still, the way they were so alive one moment, and so . . . _not_ the next. It was as a tough one to wrap one's head around. Thankfully, this one was lying face-down so she didn't have to meet with its ghastly, beyond-this-world gaze.

Following Runa—keeping a proper distance, as she sensed the woman was not currently in a very sociable mood—Ariela had time to reflect. She'd, of course, seen dead bodies before, even from close up, as studies of anatomy had been a part of her education. It was the sudden contrast between a live person and their fresh cadaver that made the most striking impact, the sudden transition.

She had to chastise herself over such a primitive reaction. After all, it was commonly known that the soul left the body at the instant when the physical conditions ceased to support it. So of course mere flesh was dimensionally different from a live person. There were, however, still those who insisted that the soul somehow lingered in the flesh for some time after death, but such claims were severely lacking in evidence. Not that anyone had specifically witnessed an actual soul leaving the body, either, but of course such phenomena could not be observed via the physical sense organs. Scrying into such things was a completely separate art, and could only be performed by those with not only natural inclination but years of arduous specialization. Or so she'd been taught, at least.

Ariela smiled sourly. What was it about moments of stress that automatically made her retreat into the world of theory? Well, or course, she reasoned: it was her place of safety, somewhere she knew she could navigate herself. Uncertainty in the face of this hostile and unpredictable world she currently occupied drove her to seek comfort in the known and the understood. Was that not simply the mortal nature?

So then what might be Runa's realm of safety, Ariela wondered. The Nord rode about fifty feet ahead, head directed resolutely ahead and held up high, as usual. To be sure, the woman stood on a wholly different level of self-assuredness than the scholar herself might have ever hoped to aspire to. This was someone who could undoubtedly stare down the Emperor himself. But how authentic was it? Did it come naturally to her or did she have to work consciously to keep it up? Might it contain just a touch of affectation? Or was that simply Ariela's own jealousy talking?

_Worry yourself not about what the cattle may think of you_ , Cicero Herennius often said. _We can't afford to waste our time and energy on what goes on in the small minds of the dregs, now can we?_

Those were the man's chosen terms—"cattle" and "dregs"—to use when referring to the common folk. Most folk, in fact, not excluding some of the members of his own guild. Though enjoying eminent respect in people's eyes on account of his intellect, none would have spared much time extolling the man's warm and likeable nature. Still, Ariela knew—or thought she knew, at least—that he wasn't really as bad as he seemed. She thought he didn't really mean half the things he said, that his bark was much worse than his bite. She even suspected that Herennius simply concealed his own underlying shyness underneath his gruff exterior, as a self-defense of sort. Not that she would have ever dared to share this surmise with anyone, lest the word of it got to the sharp ears of the crotchety man himself. That was a tongue-lashing Ariela needn't go asking for.

She had just about had enough time to get over the previous unpleasant incident and lose herself in her habitual inner chatter, when her mind was completely overturned by another sight of consequence. This one was something else entirely. She was aware of her mouth hanging agape as she took in the astonishing display, but the realization came as through a thick veil, and she could not be bothered to give it any real attention.

She had, of course, heard of the things; she'd read about them, examined artistic illustrations of them in books, but nothing could still have prepared her for the sight of an actual mammoth, like the one she was now looking at. And herded by a genuine giant, no less.

They were slowly walking around a green meadow. The giant wooly beast with its peculiar trunk and two sets of massive tusks jutting from each side of its mouth trotted at a lackadaisical pace, as if nothing in the word could possible offer it any threat. This was probably quite a correct assessment, as well. It was followed by a lanky man-like creature standing over ten feet tall, dressed in nothing but a furred loin-cloth, with a cudgel so massive held against his shoulder it could have easily obliterated a regular man in a single blow. And there was not only _a_ mammoth, and not only _a_ giant, but a whole gathering of them, keeping camp next to a giant rock, which looked like nothing more than a medium-sized boulder beside them. A big fire roared in the middle of the encampment, skinned carcasses of various small animals impaled on large skewers roasting above it.

Ariela had to bring her horse to a halt so that she could better gape at the spectacle. What did these creatures eat? It must have taken quite literally a ton of grass to sustain them. How were the meadows not completely depleted of grass? And what exactly did the giants keep them for? Did they milk them? Consume their flesh? What would that even taste like? She had a vague notion of people eating mammoth here in the north. Try as she might, though, she could not bring herself to picture the butchering process.

"What's the holdup?" Runa called. She'd stopped a couple hundred feet ahead, after presumably noticing Ariela's stalling. The displeasure in her eyes was evident even from this distance.

Ariela gestured towards the giants' encampment. She didn't feel the need for verbal clarification, as the captivating nature of the display appeared quite obvious to her.

Runa turned her head towards the colossal beasts, as if just now noticing them. "Oh, right," she said. "Guess you don't have those where you come from, huh?"

Ariela rode to where Runa was so she wouldn't need to yell, not least because she didn't want to get the humongous creatures' attention. Though she'd read both giants and mammoths were docile beings so as long you left them be, she felt better not testing that particular tidbit of book-knowledge in practice. "They're . . . _awesome_ ," she breathed, for lack of anything cannier.

Runa shrugged. "I guess," she said. "Kind of hard to stay in awe, though, once you've had one of those wiry bastards chase you across half a damn pasture. All because you happened to kick one of their pets."

Ariela gaped. "You did _what_?" she exclaimed. "Why on Nirn would you go do something like that?"

"Well, need I say I was a bit drunk?" Runa said with a wan smile, which turned into a frown under Ariela's judgmental glare. "Hey, I'm not saying it was the smartest thing to do, alright. But don't you still think it's a bit exaggerated of a punishment to beat me to pulp for it?" She shot a resentful look at a giant scratching his butt with his maul. "Savages, I tell you. More animal than man, for sure." The creature looked docile to the point of sleepiness. Still, surely those weapons weren't just for show.

"Well, I don't know," Ariela said. "From what I've observed so far, seems to me that would apply to most folks I've seen here. At least if we judge by your criteria."

Runa snorted dryly. "Point taken." She stretched with a big yawn. "Are we about done here? 'Cause I'd like to get to our terminus by sundown. My mouth's getting awful dry."

It was true the woman had not taken a single sip of anything stronger than water all day _. Poor thing_ , Ariela thought. Must have been so hard for her. "Alright," she said, not betraying her sarcastic thoughts. "Guess I've pretty much seen them by now." She could, of course, have stayed for hours, observing the beasts and taking notes, trying to find answers to the questions about their lifestyle that were now troubling her. After all, how many times would she get this kind of chance? She sighed resignedly and urged her horse on. Perhaps she'd still get a chance to return and sate her curious nature.

Soon they were passing the city of Whiterun. The hub of local trade was a handsome sight. Built on a rocky hill, it was dominated by the imposing Dragonsreach, the city palace rising clearly above the city walls, which stood as the definitive landmark of the Hold and indeed perhaps of the whole province. According to the legend, the place had originally been a much humbler abode and grown into its current massive aspect after having a grand stone prison added to it, one strong enough to contain the dragon Numinex—hence the name.

Ariela, generally adopting a skeptical stance regarding the historicity of events supposedly having involved dragons, wondered what the true history of the place might have been. Could it really have been used to trap a dragon? Looking at the massive building, she tried to imagine what that must have looked like. She felt an unexpected—not to add profoundly unprofessional—pang of regret that nothing that spectacular took place anymore, these being the relatively miracle-free times that they were.

With a misplaced sense of melancholy, she tried to focus her mind on the remaining journey. They'd been making good time, prompted by Runa who'd adopted a much sterner attitude ever since they'd left Winterhold—and even more so now, it seemed, after the incident with the lunatic on the road. They had taken only a couple brief stops for the purpose of relieving themselves, but other than that, had kept on the move. Ariela could already not wait to get back to the comfort of the indoors.

She couldn't deny feeling anxious, though, and not only over whatever danger it was that was still waiting for them, but also at the prospect of meeting Runa's mother. Based on the way Runa had talked about the woman, Ariela pictured her as some some seven-foot-tall stern demi-goddess, looking down on pathetic weaklings such as the scrawny scholar. From that footing, it was not a warm welcoming she'd be receiving.

She knew, of course, how silly she was being, as she had the habit of being intimidated by famous or notorious figures. She'd been scared positively senseless meeting Herennius for the first time. All the more her astonishment, then, when he'd turned out to be a relatively ordinary crabby old man—at least at the outset. So it was more than likely that she was going to be at least a little disappointed by the true aspect of this illustrious Nord heroine. That knowledge could not, however, still the fluttering of the wings of the butterflies that were doing their dance in the pit of her stomach.

_Such a weakling! This word will swallow you whole, little one!_

Ariela started at the sudden movement of her mind. While the first thought had been the sort of self-deprecation perfectly typical for her, the second one had felt almost as if spoken by an external voice. So cold and malicious it was it made her want to coil up inside. Was her mind falling apart on her? Or might it still be just the lingering effects of alcohol besetting her?

_I'll never drink again!_ she avowed.

Feeling a sudden chill originating solely from within, Ariela decided it was better to try to focus on something else. Her eye was drawn to the immense mountain rising in the northwest. The Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in Tamriel. On a clear day you could probably see right to the top of it, but the gauze of mist enfolding it today made for limited visibility. Up there somewhere lay the High Hrothgar, the monastery that was the home of the Greybeards, a secluded and mysterious order dedicated to the art of the Voice, or _Thu'um_ , an ancient form of magic utilizing the Dragon language to affect the world. In known history, there had been but a few individuals besides the adepts of the order initiated into it, the most famous one of them probably Tiber Septim himself. A more recent, not to mention _notorious_ , person to have wielded the Thu'um had of course been Ulfric Stormcloak, who'd not only used it to liberate the city of Markarth from the Reachmen, but to tear the High King Torygg asunder as well. Or so it was said.

If she focused hard, she thought she could almost discern the outline of the monastery through passing fissures in the veil of haze. As far as she knew, the Graybeards were extremely reclusive, not having shown themselves to any outsiders for decades, and certainly not welcoming strangers. How did they, then, acquire their food? Certainly they could grow no crops up there? But never mind that. The scholar in Ariela— _most_ of her, in truth—practically swooned over thinking what they might be able to tell her about the Dragonborn, about the prophecy Herennius was so obsessed with. If only she could somehow manage to get an audition with them! But certainly the principal would have gone to them himself if that were possible . . .

Ariela undid the top buttons of her coat against the increasing heat, as the sun was showing more and more of its face from behind the clouds. Having passed Whiterun, they followed the path southward, leading higher up to the mountainous terrain. The path ran parallel with noisily roaring heavy rapids to their left. Steam rose from the teeming waters, showing rainbow colors with the rays of the afternoon sun filtering through it. Oddly, the weather higher up was getting deceptively vernal. The impression was deepened by the clusters of greener grass amid the yellow ones, and here and there even an occasional flower. It was as if they'd been moving forward in time, from the autumn of the Rift, through the winter of Eastmarch, Winterhold, and The Pale, and now to spring. Even the birds seemed to sing louder here, sounding happier, more at ease.

Ariela soon had to undo the rest of the buttons of her heavy coat. She winced at the tickling from a sweat bead running down her back. Perspiration had started to gather about her brow as well, and her body was starting to itch most uncomfortably. A bath—an actual bath!—would sure have been good. Though even just a quick dip in the heavy waters rushing past would have sufficed. Not that she'd have been able to get in without being washed away by the heavy current. Not to mention that the surly Nord in her company would have undoubtedly scowled at the idea.

She felt an upsurge of irritation at that. At first it had been Runa's seemingly endless stream of jabbering and bad puns Ariela had been forced to withstand, and then, as soon as it had suited Runa the woman had switched to this sullen and surly pouting, making it very difficult for the scholar, already on edge, to relax. She felt she couldn't ask the Nord anything about their destination without fearing her reaction. Who was Runa to dictate the terms of their engagement? Was it not, after all, Ariela who had—after a fashion, anyway—employed _her_? Shouldn't she at least get some say here?

Ariela straightened her back. She would not—would _not!_ —take this kind of pushing around any longer. She cleared her throat to say something to the Nord whose steed was now only a few steps in front of hers.

But just then, Runa brought Frost to an abrupt halt and raised a warning hand. Ariela's protests died on her lips. Runa whipped her head back, an urgent look in her blue eyes. "Get off your horse!" she whispered gruffly.

Stunned, Ariela could not even think of doing anything.

"Now!" Runa hissed.

Ariela scampered off the back of her horse as fast as she could, her heart racing. What was going on?

As if an answer to her inquiry, something snapped on the ground a few paces from them. It skidded down the road, coming to a stop at her feet. A slim piece of wood with a sharpened piece of metal at the end.

An arrow.

"On the ground, _now_!" Runa growled.

Ariela didn't need the instructions reinforced this time, but was lying face down in the green grass by the side of the road nearly as soon as Runa was finished with her command.

A second arrow hit the ground. Then a third. Ariela could not help it: she made a sound, a mix of a yelp and a whimper. Hugging the stones of the ground like an infant clinging to her mother's skirts, she started a silent prayer to Julianos. But what was _he_ going to do? Send her a giant book to cower behind?

A weight fell on her. It was Runa, shielding her body with her own. "Don't worry, kid," the Nord said. "If these are bandits, they're damned lousy ones. See how off their aim is?"

It was true. Arrow after arrow kept snapping on the paving stones, but not a single one anywhere near the women. Either the bandits were really crummy shooters or then they weren't even trying to hit them but simply to intimidate. If it was the latter, then they'd succeeded; Ariela's heart was beating like there was no tomorrow, and her horse had taken off the second she'd scrambled off its back. Only Frost was still standing in place, observing the arrows pummeling the ground with naught but mild curiosity. Whether he was really courageous or simply really stupid, Ariela couldn't quite decide.

Runa pointed at a hill rising in front of them where the road curved to the right. "It's coming from up there, but I can't see them," she said. "Damned cowards!"

Suddenly, the arrows stopped coming. Closing her eyes, Ariela seemed to hear everything with minute accuracy. Her own frantic heartbeat. Runa's heavy breath, the feeling of it hot on her skin. The birds singing. The wind, and the rumble of the restless waters. But no people. She opened her eyes, seeing no one.

Runa was regarding the hills ahead, anger darkening her visage. She then got up on her knees and craned her neck, hands cupped around her mouth. "Alright, you fools!" she bellowed. "Enough of this mucking around. I'll give you once chance and one chance _only_ to let us pass. We'll just pretend none of this ever happened. You probably don't even know who it is you're messing with."

With Runa, it was always difficult to figure out if her blustering was simply bluff, but having seen the woman in action twice now, Ariela didn't quite think so. It was an altogether different matter whether these thugs bought into it or not. How widespread was the woman's reputation? Certainly they knew her around here?

A contemptuous laughter sounded off the hillside. Not one of somebody intimidated, Ariela took note. "Well, well," said a male voice. "And who, exactly might that be, If I may ask?" There was a strange, untraceable accent to the voice. Sounded all-around fake.

"Runa Fair-Shield, daughter of Maren Dragonheart," Runa yelled. "I do not believe further introductions are needed."

" _'Dragonheart'?_ " Ariela mouthed at Runa. That was about as ridiculously boisterous a sobriquet she'd ever heard. The other woman waved her hand to chase the issue away.

Another laugh came as a reply to Runa's proclamation, this time in a form of an amused giggle. "Ooh, well now we _are_ scared!" the voice said, its accent slipping. "The daughter of Maren Bauble Pusher herself! A formidable foe when sober, I admit—if only that were ever the case. Tell me, been hitting the Dragon's Breath Mead lately?"

Runa's face went through a series of phases in a quick succession, starting with a confused frown, then flashing a brief little smile, and ultimately settling on as irritated a scowl as Ariela had seen on her so far. "Well I might have, if some washed-out old sell-sword didn't keep pouring it all down his gullet!" she replied, her tone somewhat tentative.

There was more laughing, and then the rustle of leaves as a group of figures came into view from behind a row of bushes growing on the hillside. Runa stood up and started walking to them, while Ariela stared in confusion. _What's going on here?_

"You bastard!" Runa cried at a still laughing man skidding down the rocky hill, three men following behind him. Despite the ire in her voice, the corners of the woman's mouth were upturned.

The grinning man was rather handsome, Ariela noted, in the earthy, rugged sort of way. In his mid to late thirties, with a short ruddy beard and similarly hued semi-long hair combed back and woven into thin braids by the temples, he was of a sturdy build as was typical for his kind, but without the protruding beer gut that older warriors often sported. The grinning teeth shining through his neat beard were clean and conspicuously white. All in all, he had the air of somebody putting intention into his appearance, yet trying to come across as if he didn't.

Coming to her feet, Ariela did her darnedest to ignore the feeling arising in her as she studied the man. She would _not_ be persuaded by a pretty face. Or by the man's captivatingly arrogant swagger. Or by his disarming smile. Or by those brawny arms . . .

She decided that it was best to focus on the ground in front of her instead.

"Sorry, Runa," the man said, not sounding sorry in the least. The silly accent was gone, confirming its fakeness. His dialect was the usual Nord one. It sounded rather charming in his mouth, Ariela thought, utterly despite herself. "I simply could not resist the temptation."

Runa snorted. "Weren't those the exact words your father used about tumbling that whore? Your mother, that is."

The tall man chuckled. He had a melodic laughter. "Oh, don't be mad!" he said. "It was only a bit of fun." As to emphasize this point, he doubled over laughing even harder. Evidently, this was a man easily amused—by himself, at least. "By the Nine, Runa!" he breathed, after finally gathering himself. "You should've seen yourself, running to hide like a bunny rabbit. I regret I didn't bring a change of smallclothes to spare; hopefully you've come prepared."

"Yeah, well," replied Runa, "I tend to get that way when attacked by brave men hiding in bushes." She shook her head, smiling freely now. At least her glumness seemed to have vanished. "It's like I've always said, Erik—what you lack in courage you make up for in experience. And with that face, I'm sure you're more than seasoned in the art of scaring the womenfolk."

"The only thing scaring them, Runa," Erik replied in suave tones, "is the prospect that after a night spent with me, they'll never in their lives experience anything so grand again." The man inclined his head in mock regret. "And they are quite right in that fear." He glanced at Ariela and flashed a brilliant smile. She hoped her cheeks did not look as red as they felt when she looked away. The grass really was quite green up here.

"You mendacious sack of mammoth-dung!" Runa barked. She narrowed her eyes on the man. "And what in Oblivion where you doing hiding up there, anyway? Just waiting for hapless women to walk by? So very much like you, Erik."

"Ah, Maren sent us," explained Erik. "Some bandits been pestering the folks around Riverwood. She promised she'd do something to help, so we've been patrolling the area in the hopes of catching sight of 'em. Apparently the local guards aren't interesting in doing squat 'less they catch the bastards in action. Lazy sods!" Grimacing, he spat at his feet.

"And if you're all here, who's guarding the Manor?"

"Don't worry yourself there," Erik said with a laugh. "The old lady can still well fend for herself. Plus we left a couple of lads behind."

"Lads, huh? Uh-oh. In that case we better knock before entering!"

Erik grinned. "Like mother like daughter."

"Damn straight," Runa said. She frowned then, fists on her hips. "By the way, you've got it all wrong—I'm far more dangerous when moderately plastered."

"Moderation, is it now?" Erik said. "So you _are_ familiar with the concept. You just prefer to ignore it."

Runa scowled. "One _has_ to perfect the art of ignorance when growing up near such malodorous—"

While listening to their bantering, Ariela grew increasingly agitated. Yes, sure, what's a little prank between old friends? Just fire a couple arrows, crack some jokes, and afterwards everything will be just fine. But what of Ariela? She was no tarnished veteran of a hundred battle-grounds. It wasn't her idea of a jolly old time to be have a bunch of missiles volleyed at her.

It was just so very typical, wasn't it? By this point, she shouldn't have even been surprised anymore. Forget about little old Ariela, that mousy book-worm. Never mind if she almost has a heart-failure while you're playing one of your games.

But not this time. This time she would speak her mind, and speak it good!

"Now ex _cuse_ me just one minute here," she declared in a bout of self-assurance, arms folded tightly across her breasts. All eyes turned to her, conversation dying down. She suddenly felt utterly out her element; but she would be damned if she let insecurity stop her this time. She determinedly cleared her throat. "I full well understand that playing around with arrows and whatnot is what passes for a funny joke with your type," she said. "But I, for one, fail to see the humor in it. And I'm not afraid to admit that I very much feared for my life, and that I am _not_ satisfied with you brushing it off with a couple laughs and leaving it at that."

At that moment, she felt like the paragon of affronted dignity. It actually made her feel a few inches taller. Surely they would see her point and not fail to feel the sting of her admonishments.

"And who is this little lady?" asked Erik, never sheathing what seemed to be his most dangerous weapon, his smile.

Runa opened her mouth for an answer, but Ariela would not grant her the time of day. "I'm _not_ a 'little lady'," she stated indignantly. "My name is Ariela, and I am the representative of the Scholar's Guild of Tamriel in Skyrim." It wasn't exactly a lie, if not strictly the truth either.

Erik whistled. "Well, pardon me, your scholarly eminence," he said with one of those stupid little bows. "I did not know that." When he lifted his gaze to meet with hers, the playful twinkle in his eyes almost had Ariela disarmed.

Almost, but not quite.

"I would have your apology, sir," she said as coolly as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Runa concealing a smirk. The woman had better keep that mouth shut or she'd get her share!

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Erik's expression actually did grow more serious. He took a few steps toward Ariela, inclining his head but without mirth this time, never breaking eye contact. "If I in any way caused you distress with my careless behavior, my lady, you have my most sincere apologies. I didn't dream that Runa could possibly be accompanied by anyone of your . . . delicate nature." He finished by bowing his head all the way down. Runa snorted loudly.

The manner in which he conducted himself was more than a little exaggerated, but he did at least sound genuine. "I . . . um, accept your apology," Ariela said, unable to think of anything more apposite. Honestly, at this point she just wanted this charade to come to a conclusion.

The man raised his head, wearing a delighted smile. "I am glad that you do, my lady." He nodded decidedly. "No hard feelings then?"

"Wouldn't be so sure about you and no 'hard feelings', Erik," Runa sneered.

The handsome man just continued to beam at Ariela. "I apologize on behalf of her crude nature. Though I'm sure you're used to it by now."

Ariela herself managed a little smile. "Suppose you could say as much, yes."

He might have had the crude character of the warrior kind, but something about this man was different. At least he knew how to act in an agreeable manner when needed—more that could be said of the ones she'd seen so far. And that smile _was_ pretty disarming . . .

"And, uh, so how much longer of this courtship are we to have to endure?" Runa interposed. "'Cause I'd kinda want to continue, if that's in any way possible."

Erik turned to face the sardonically smirking woman. "Where were you headed to begin with?"

"Well, it so happens we were coming to meet the old lady herself."

"Oh? A warm family get-together?"

"Not exactly. Business."

Erik nodded curtly. "Guessed as much. Not the sentimental types, your lot."

"There may even be some use for you lot," Runa said, ignoring the observation.

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "Ooh? I'm all ears."

"All in good time, all in good time. First let's get to the Manor. I trust your merry men will be accompanying us?"

"Naturally," Erik replied. "I suspect the bandits were long gone by the time the word was out of our arrival, anyway."

"Probably scared away by the stench of you."

"Or perhaps they got word of your arrival and were simply looking to protect their chastity."

"Please," Ariela interceded, "no more of that!" She'd heard more than enough ripostes for a day. Preferably for a couple of weeks at least. "Can somebody kindly help me locate my horse?"

Erik was nice enough to help her find the horse. She was waiting some way down the slope, stamping the ground and snorting nervously. Erik gripped the mare by the reins and petted her mane while verbally soothing her in hushed tones. It didn't take long for the animal to become calm again. Ariela was impressed with the man's aptitude with the frightened creature. And had she actually just heard him apologize to her?

They got on their horses and rode on slowly while Erik's bunch followed on foot. Runa spent the trip catching up with Erik, which largely consisted of relentless jibing back and forth, and thus Ariela's wish to get a break from the constant bantering went ungranted. Still, annoying as it may have been, it was good to see the Nord more or less back to her old self, laughing and making bad puns and dealing out insults. Ariela didn't much care for the sullen Runa, she'd much rather be annoyed with the woman than remain ever tiptoeing around her.

And as for Erik . . . well, as he walked beside Runa a few paces ahead, he kept stealing glances back at Ariela. Each time their eyes met, he gave her a smile, and she could do nothing but return it.

_Oh my_ , she thought, her cheeks warm. _I don't know if I like where this seems to be going._

But of course she knew. She liked it way more than she would ever admit. Even to herself.

 


	30. The Vigilants

 

 

 

Grimacing, Quintus wrapped his arms around himself. As the last bit of adrenaline along with the final traces of vinous buzz evaporated from his blood, he came close to shivering. Hjaalmarch was cold, and the farther inland they progressed, the colder it got. Bitter wind swooped down the ragged slopes of snowcapped mountains in place of the earlier acrid breath of the swampland, somewhat like trading a spot on the gallows for a headrest on the chopping block. The road wound through a world of frozen pallor, omnipresent snow encasing everything from the mountains and outcrops to the bristling spruce trees skirting the path. The soft haze wafting above the tree line shone milky white against the nearly cloudless sky of crisp blue.

No doubt it was a beautiful day by someone's standards, but by Quintus', they might just as well have been on a slog through one of the less popular regions of the Void.

"Sir," said Sergeant Meric urgently, once he noticed his superior's plight. He dug into his saddlebags to produce a pair of wool blankets, handing one to Quintus and draping the other over his own shoulders. Quintus accepted the thing sullenly, glancing at that smirking bastard Kayd.

"Forgotten all about that ol' multifarious Skyrim weather, eh?"

Quintus ignored the lout, wrapping the quilt about himself. He was admittedly surprised by the fact that the man's vocabulary contained polysyllabic words, but then he'd heard that certain monkeys could be taught the rudiments of the lute. He'd never before lent credibility to such things, but this now seemed like something in the way of proof.

He shifted on the hard bench, trying to find a position in which the chafed hide on his buttock wouldn't smart quite so much. Smacking his mouth, he gave Meric's saddlebags a sideways glance. "I don't suppose you have anything to drink in there?"

Merrick blinked. "Sorry sir."

Quintus looked away, making sure not to let his eye touch on Kayd's grinning.

Getting nothing out of the Chief Inspector, Kayd turned his leer to the younger sergeant. "So, Meric, was it? Getting scared yet?"

Meric scowled. "Scared?"

"Aye, suppose these are dangerous times to be 'round Skyrim. Just ask Giggles there next to you." When Meric's only reply was a confused frown, Kayd added, "Not just the outlawry and the like, mind you. The High Queen herself." He jerked his head toward Quintus. "See, Quintus here seems to believe we have a new Wolf Queen in the makings."

Meric turned round eyes at the Chief Inspector.

"No, I don't!" Quintus snapped. This was followed by an immediate internal wince at how the conceitedly simpering bastard had managed to goad him into such an infantile knee-jerk reaction.

"Stedarr's tits!" Kayd laughed. "You're so easy it's a crime! Though, to be . . . eh, _fair_ , it sure doesn't seem like you put much stock in the lady, either."

"The High Queen and I get along just fine," Quintus replied curtly. Refusing to partake in this tomfoolery any longer, he fixed a firm gaze at the passing scenery of snow-choked pinewoods.

_The Wolf Queen!_ Quintus thought with a scoff. As if the fact he didn't really trust the woman—had a nagging suspicion she was up to something profoundly shifty—didn't mean he went right on to compare her to the single most infamous female in Imperial history, an irrefutably insane witch who had commanded, it was said, both Daedra and undead warriors in her quest for power!

Now, Sybille Stentor: that woman might have been another matter, but Quintus suspected that even she fell far behind Potema when it came to sheer wickedness. Probably . . .

To Quintus' relief, Sergeant Kayd had the decency to keep his big yap shut for the next couple hours, and Meric did not seek to pester him either. It was difficult enough not to fall into an uncomfortable stupor in this gods-forsaken weather without any alcohol to warm—or to _numb_ —him. He was feeling the undeniable nauseous torpor of hangover creep up on him, his mouth rapidly turning into parchment. At least the unforgiving chill did something to keep his attention from fully settling on those things. Despite the cold, though, he got close to nodding off a few times with the mountainous background flying by with little variation that he cared about.

The scenic monotone was then severed by the sight of a raided carriage standing by the roadside. A single dead horse still tethered to the fallen wagon, scattered goods lying all about; blotches of blood here and there on the snow.

The men's dispassionate eyes studied the passing scene. "There are no corpses," Quintus remarked.

Kayd gave a blasé shrug. "Scavengers?"

"The horse's untouched."

"Someone's taken them?" Meric asked.

Kayd made a gesture that said, "possibly".

"Why?"

Kayd shrugged again. "There are great many uses for people."

Meric looked a little ill, but made no further comment. And neither did anyone else. No more was said of the matter.

Not long after, another distraction. From the midst of trees, a woman in torn farm clothes shambled in front of their wagon, forcing it to halt. "Please," she keened. "Please!" She was desperately trying to keep the shreds of her tattered tunic covering her breasts. She was no longer a young maiden, Quintus observed, but certainly not too old to get overpassed by a punch of impecunious ruffians, either.

"What is this!" Kayd growled at the stoppage.

"I was . . . we were . . ." The woman's ragged breathing came out in pained pants. She'd obviously been running hard, and a good while at that. "There were highwaymen. I was . . . they killed my husband. Oh, Brynjolfr!" Her legs gave out, and she curled into a sobbing ball.

"We're in a hurry!" snapped Kayd. "If you require assistance, you'd better hobble on to Morthal." He gave a desultory wave back toward east-ish. "They've got fellows there that do that sort of stuff for living. Now, move aside, we've got places to be."

The woman stared up at him with disbelieving, red-rimmed eyes. "But . . ."

"No buts!" Kayd snapped. "'Cept maybe the butt of a spear for you if you don't move this second!"

In shock—a new layer on top of the old one—the woman scrambled to her feet at the same time as the horses started moving again. Her mouth frozen open in incredulous horror, face smeared with blood and dirt by tears, she stared wide-eyed at the convoy passing her without second thought.

"And good luck with that!" Kayd yelled at the poor woman still staring after them.

A laden silence descended on them. Kayd seemed not to notice anything awry, though Meric was staring at him with a mix of disbelief and utmost contempt.

Inured man that he was, even Quintus couldn't help staring at Kayd inquiringly.

Finally, the man noticed, frowning at him. "What?"

"That was a bit cold, don't you think?"

Kayd shrugged. "It's not our job. Raids happen every day, the lot of us ain't gonna stop 'em. Plus, we've a mission. From the Emperor himself, if I'm not mistaken."

Quintus didn't have an argument for that. "Still. Isn't it . . . your duty to . . . I don't know." He trailed off.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But what can you do? A wiser man than myself once told me, 'evil prevails and shit lives forever'." He shrugged again. "Gotta just look out for number one and let the rest fend for 'emselves. That's my philosophy."

A brief silence. "You're a profound thinker, Kayd."

"Never said it was a grand one. But it's mine."

Meric said nothing, but the stare he'd fixed on the other sergeant now contained a good dose of unadulterated odium.

"Things are the way they are, no two ways about it," Kayd concluded. "Right, Bull?" Bull, by his side, gave a grunt, and the half-Nord's eyes swung back from the big man to Quintus. "Bull agrees."

Quintus had no intention to keep breathing life into this particular subject matter. He settled back into sullen silence, forgetting about the troubles of others in favor of planning what he was going to do once he returned to Cyrodiil. Once he'd finally solved the case. Early as it might have been to celebrate, there was no alternative to succeeding. Should he fail . . . no, that couldn't even be a consideration at this point.

Soon after, the weather took a dive to the worse. Seemingly out of nowhere, thick billowing clouds swooped in to swallow the sky. Within minutes, large and heavy sheets of snow started whipping down, and the wool blanket no longer sufficed against the cold. But Quintus did not complain. He pulled the quilt tighter around his shoulders and bit down his teeth. It could not have been much longer to their destination, after all. He would manage.

_Couldn't find a closed carriage for me, could you?_ he thought bitterly, holding Rikke's hard features in his mind's eye. The bitch had done this deliberately, he just _knew_ it!

The convoy had to turn from the wider Imperial road to a narrower path leading through the rocky knolls. The carrier swung nauseatingly from side to side as it went its meandering way. The path was clearly not meant for anything more cumbersome than a horse. Eventually, however, Quintus was relieved to spy tufts of straw peeking from between the rocks and trees on a nearby hill. The path dipped once more, and they turned to an upwards sloping entryway toward their destination.

"Hold!"

Quintus nearly slipped down from his perch as the cart came to a jerking stop. Cursing, Kayd swung round. "What the hell _now_!" he snarled.

Even the hard-nosed sergeant seemed a little rattled by what he saw. A tall man in dark robes stood by the roadside, his abrupt materialization enough to turn the horses skittish. He wore heavy chainmail armor underneath the robes, giving him an ungainly, angular look. Gauntleted hands hovered raised beside his head, a crackling and sizzling purple-blue radiance coursing through the air around them. The cowl of his hood had half-concealed his features, but his face was of a charcoal complexion, eyes a pair of glowing embers beneath the rim.

A Dunmer battlemage.

"State your business!" the mage demanded.

"The Emperor's business!" replied Kayd, recovered from the surprise.

The Dunmer cocked his face up to the Sergeant. If that was a smile on it, it numbered among the most hideous Quintus had seen. "We are beyond the Emperor's jurisdiction."

Quintus could feel the air all around them tensing. More than one hand traveled to hilts. The battlemage seemed to notice none of it, or simply did not care.

"Re- _eal_ -ly?" Kayd drawled, bristling as well. "To my knowledge, we're well within Emperor's borders. With plenty of the Emperor's steel between the lot of us to turn even the stubbornest of hearts."

The implicit threat in the Sergeant's words was not lost on the Dunmer. He grinned in earnest now: a broad gash of ice strewn across his sharp features.

Kayd nodded at the nearest soldier who fluidly unmounted, blade hissing out of its scabbard. A dry swallow was caught in Quintus' throat as the man took a step toward the mage. He got no further, however, before the hills around them sprang to life. Within a heartbeat, it was no longer a single battlemage they were looking at, but at least half a dozen; all of them similarly garbed as the first man and hands likewise poised to shower arcane death on anyone eligible. The soldiers one and all looked unsettled.

The Dunmer mage was still smiling at Kayd. He looked almost congenial, which made him look all the more dangerous. "I'll ask again," he said without hurry. "State your business."

"We are here—" Quintus' cracked voice was coming out of his throat before he realized it. "—to investigate a murder. We got a lead that sends us here, and we wish to approach the Hall of the Vigilant".

The battlemage cocked his head at Quintus. "An Imperial," he said thoughtfully. "An agent of some sort, I think. Hmm." He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, like an animal sniffing the air. "A second, please."

Kayd, Quintus, and Meric shared unsure looks. Bull, in contrast, had his rabid gaze fixed on the battlemage, the veins in his neck bulging so fiercely that they looked they might pop through his skin at any moment.

After a score of confused heartbeats, the Dunmer opened his red eyes. "Alright," he said calmly. "These ones may pass."

He lowered his arms, as did the other ones around him. And as soon as they'd appeared, all but the first battlemage had vanished back behind the trees, boulders, and outcrops that riddled the flanking hills. Just like that, the threat of violence that had hovered thick in the air, dwindled away, leaving only a vague sense of bewilderment in its wake.

"Aye," Kayd said, nodding his head. He looked as though he had no idea what had just happened, but nonetheless needed to give the impression that it had been his actions that had proved decisive. "Aye, of course we may. That's what I said."

The Dunmer stepped aside with a gracious gesture for them to carry on. And though the soldiers were still eyeing the man rancorously, he himself appeared to have forgotten all about them already.

His heartbeat starting to settle back to normal, Quintus eyed Sergeant Kayd in amazement. Had the man just been about to sic his soldier on a battlemage? No, surely even he wouldn't be so brash. Judging by his expression, his jawline taut and eyes factitiously nonchalant, trying hard to look as though the situation had been in his control all along, Quintus realized he was looking at a hardened gambler. And while bluffing was of essence in the fields of political machinations, in his mind it had little place in martial matters. In a world where any small instance of carelessness could mean devastation, laying odds was a good way to get not only yourself but those in your charge slaughtered.

Biting his lip, he fought hard the impulse to admonish the Sergeant. There were more immediate, more important things to worry about. He settled his attention on the Hall of the Vigilant squatting atop the hill.

The hall was a two-storied house of rough-hewn planks on a boulder foundation, the narrower upper floor resting atop the wider downstairs. It was built in the standard Nord style with its thatched roofs with sharp ridges. The middle part jutted out of the rest of the building and nearly into the road. Right beside the protrusion, and partly hanging over it, stood another, smaller two-storied dwelling built in the same fashion. This smaller abode was likely used as additional living quarters for the men, as the Vigilants of today hosted greater numbers than they had at the time of the Hall's establishing.

Of course, around the same time as the Province was at war, the original hall had faced an attack that had seen it burned to the ground, every member present murdered. A rabid gang of vampires was who was said to have been behind the strike, a claim given additional credence by the fact that Skyrim at the time had suffered attacks from the children of the night in increased volumes.

But the story of the Vigilants of Stendarr was far from finished. A pious and eager Nord had traveled from Cyrodiil to the old homeland of his people: a man filled with the righteous anger of the Divines, driven to fight the forces of darkness that abounded. Whatever the man had done, it had seemed to work in terms of the organization rediscovering its legs. But, it was said, the reforms that the man had put in place had made the outfit even more fanatical in their faith, showing even less restraint in hounding the citizens of the land.

The convoy came to a halt in front of the building, and the front door swung open. A tall, straight-backed man with long, gray hair and an abundant silvery beard stood in the doorway, squinting at them. The man's eyes scanned the soldiers with apparent disinterest, but lit up momentarily as they settled upon Quintus. That moment, however, was so ephemeral as to leave one unsure if it had occurred at all. All Quintus knew for sure was that this fellow immediately made him feel uneasy.

And yet, at the same time, his earlier skepticism seemed swept aside with one brush. For reasons he could not for the life of him pin down, he suddenly felt certain that this was precisely the place where he was supposed to be.

Swatting aside Sergeant Meric's helping hand, he strode to the old man. "Afternoon. I am Quintus Lex, the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculatus. Here on an official matter. May we step inside? " He did not offer his hand.

"Yes." The old man nodded, his eyes slightly narrowed. "Yes, you are. Please." He stepped aside, gesturing. "By all means."

Without another word, Quintus swept past the man. The inside air was blessedly warm, smelling of cooking meat and sweet herbs. Then, as Sergeant Meric was about to follow, the man positioned his arm in the way. "Your men," he said, addressing Quintus though looking at Meric, "may find lodgings in the barracks. I do assume you plan to stay a while?"

Merrick frowned, his lips parted as if intending to protest. Quintus caught the Sergeant's eye and shook his head. "That depends on what I discover, and how soon," he told the man coolly. "Meric, take charge out there if you can, see that the men get the accommodations they've deserved." They could sleep in a kennel for all he cared. "I will be quite alright."

Reluctantly, the young man nodded, and the door shut in front of him. The old man turned, smiling. "You can be most assured of that," he said. "Please."

Following his gesture, Quintus walked in further to take a seat at a long trestle table set against the back wall. The room was dim, sparsely lit with but a few candles in addition to the hearth with a sizeable fire roaring in it. In addition to the old man himself, there were a few other men loitering about. They were not battlemages, but the robed figures were certainly formidable in their own right. There was, Quintus took note, no evidence of women's presence.

He eyed the foods on the table in front of him. The selection was as sparse as everything else here. Eider cheese. Grapes. Some baked potatoes. Dried strips of venison.

"You may help yourself," the man said.

The lack of wine on the table was conspicuous. "The dust of the road still clings to my throat," Quintus said. "I don't suppose I could get something to drink?"

"Water," the man said. "We don't keep alcohol on the premises."

"Ah, I see." _Now, what the hell!_ "Water will do just fine." _Like Oblivion it will!_

The man gestured at another Vigilant further back, and soon the fellow padded over to them holding a pitcher.

"So," the white haired man said, sitting at the opposite side, "official matter you say?"

Quintus was startled at the closer look at the leader of the Vigilants. This was not in fact an old man at all, but one in at the heart of his middle years. Something had added at least a decade, probably two, to his appearance. It wasn't simply the color of the hair on his head and face that gave that impression, but his crinkled skin as well. Still, there was no doubt about the fact that his years were fewer than the first glimpse of him made you think. The gray eyes belonged to a younger man as well, shining bright at the sides of a big honker of a nose, below white voluminous brows that reached out to each other, virtually touching.

"Pardon," Quintus said. "I did not catch your name."

"No, you did not," the man agreed. He kept silent so long that Quintus wondered whether he was actually planning to give it at all. "I am named Cristus Farseer," he finally said. "I lead the Vigilant of Stendarr. As you may have gathered."

"So I have," Quintus said, letting his eye wander around the artless hall. "You've been successful here, then?"

Farseer teetered his head dubiously from side to side, a slight grimace on his face. "It depends largely on what meaning you give to 'success'. Often the valuations of this meretricious word hardly go together with our own." He paused. "But we are doing alright, all things considered. And I've a conviction that the war we wage is heading towards victory."

Quintus popped a grape in his mouth. It was sweet, but would have been better fermented and bottled. "Indeed?"

"Indeed," confirmed Farseer. "If I did not believe that, there would be little reason to continue, would there? When I took over—or rather _started_ over—this organization, I realized some changes had to be made. To ensure what happened to our predecessors would never happen again."

"The battlemages?"

"Yes, they were among those changes. An added layer of muscle, as it were. They serve us well, though we don't count them as a part of us, officially. They lack the certain more . . . pious element; but we make sure their faith remains at a sufficient level."

"I don't doubt that," said Quintus, plucking another grape.

"Doubt," Farseer pronounced empathetically, his eyes taking on an odd gleam, "is precisely the problem. Here at the Hall, we allow none at all."

"Oh, truly? I myself have always tried to employ as much of it as I possibly could."

"You and I, Chief Inspector, work in very different fields."

"And yet, it would appear, they can sometimes converge." Quintus paused to sip his water. "Like now."

There was a vulturine element to Farseer's smile. "I am wary of, yet intrigued by, that prospect."

Quintus did his best to mirror the man's expression. "But you don't doubt?"

"I do not," Farseer replied. "Our enemy doesn't doubt. Why should we?"

"And how do you know that they do not?"

"Hmm." Farseer actually seemed to ponder on it, but only for a second. "A good question."

"Thank you. It is what I do, you know."

"So." Farseer strummed his long and gnarled fingers on the tabletop. His manner had grown increasingly restive. "Investigation, then?"

Finally, to the heart of the matter. "Ulfr— ah, I was pointed this way. I am looking for an assassin." Quintus paused. "Of the Emperor."

"The previous Emperor, I take it."

"Naturally. The current one is doing just fine." _As much as he ever was_.

All in all, Quintus' announcement didn't seemed to have done much to impress the man. Farseer was nodding. "Aye, nobody better to know the dwellers of darkness than we here do."

"Pardon."

"The Dark Brotherhood," the man rumbled. "The ones you seek, surely?"

Yes, surely . . . Elisif had assured him that the new evidence had "precious little to do with the Dark Brotherhood", and Ulfric, in addition to his ravings, had said not a word about them.

And yet. And yet.

The man, as if taking Quintus' lack of reply as an affirmative, stood up. He turned his back on Quintus and walked over to stand by the fireside. "You know, your arrival comes as no surprise to me."

"Indeed?" Quintus said, screening the unease caused by the statement behind nonchalance.

As Farseer turned again to face him after a moment, his eyes seemed to have caught some of the hearth's flame. "Indeed not," he grated. "The world that I inhabit, these days, holds little in the way of surprise. Nor does it any longer know coincidence. You coming here? Far from chance! Everything fits so perfectly, according precisely with the divine will. Stendarr is using us for his good work. His righteous wrath will be known, mark my words!"

"I . . ." Quintus' thespian talents were soon stretched to their limit.

"Evil, it seems, is spreading its influence ever faster. And it's happening everywhere all at once. You saw Azarseth, no?" The man didn't wait for a reply, the passion of his discourse growing by the word. "Troubling news from his homeland, Morrowind. A group of Daedra worshipers, it is said, has challenged the old order, resulting to violence in order to impose their ways on others. The wildest rumors attest that among the Daedra Lords, they've fashioned one of their own; one to signify—nay, _deify_ —the so-called righteous wrath of their people! Now, if I were to give credence to wild rumors—" He smiled, looking at Quintus quizzically. "But I don't. So . . ." He turned back to face the hearth.

Quintus mopped cold sweat from his brow. And there he had been starting to imagine he wasn't dealing with an utter loon after all. "Azarseth," he croaked. "The battlemage who stopped us? He and you shared a . . . connection of some kind?"

Farseer nodded. "Of some kind." He seemed lost in his thoughts, and Quintus for one didn't particularly feel like probing him about them. Not much later, he spoke again. "There is little doubt, however, that daedric worship is on the rise all around our world. Immense and dreadful things are afoot. Here in Skyrim, we've been after . . . something significant. Organized and purposeful dark business." He faced Quintus again, pinning the Chief Inspector with flaming eyes. "It is my firm belief that a powerful cult of a Daedric Price has been growing right under our very noses. Dedicated to whom, I cannot be sure, but my guess is Molalg Bal, if not Mehrunes Dagon. In any case, they must be comparable to the Mythic Dawn. Perhaps they, too, intend to bring about another Oblivion crisis."

Quintus sniffed. "That would be impossib—"

"A renegade priest," Farseer raved on, "of the Divines, turned to dark paths, is who I've heard leads that cult, and intends nothing less than to collapse all of reality into the Void. The Void! Can you imagine the sheer hatred behind such a purpose!"

Quintus shook his head, but not as a reply to the man's diatribe.

"Neither can I! Neither can I . . . and yet, I believe it's true." Farseer came closer to lean his hands against the table. "And what's more, it has been revealed to me over the years that the man behind this has rallied all imaginable forces of evil behind his twisted cause. Necromancers, vampires, Daedra worshipers . . . you name it! And the Dark brotherhood? They are sure to be mixed up in this as well." Spittle spraying, the man banged his fist on the wood. "The filthy worshipers of Sithis and his demons! Who else more committed to sending souls to the Void?" He shoved his face right next to Quintus', continuing in a half-whisper. "Something's happening, mark my words. A feeling of discontent has been brewing underneath the placid surface of this land. These . . . _fiends_ know it well and don't hesitate to use it to their advantage. They are getting ready for their first move. And it is my firm belief that they mean no less than to usurp the power from the hands of our rightful rulers! A brand new revolt! A rebellion most atrocious!"

Quintus fought against the impulse to roll his eyes. "Don't tell me that the Stormclo—

"The storm!" Spittle landed on Quintus' face. "Speak you of the coming storm?

Wiping his cheek, Quintus frowned. At least the Vigilant leader had the decency to pull back some.

"The man in my dreams, he has spoken of this! A man most hideous in aspect and offensive of odor. He has told me that a storm is coming. _The True Storm_ , he calls it!" Farseer's eyes went wide. "Have you also dreamed of him?

"Ah, no." _Alas, it was no dream._

"Oh, but is terrifying," the madman growled. "The glimpses of vision he has showed me—disregarding that I begged for him not to!—of the world of torment, torture, calamity, and terror that awaits us if we do not win this war!" Then he was in Quintus' face again. "Tell me, have you ever felt upon yourself the cold breath of the Dread-Father? For I have . . . Him even the most atrocious of Princes fear. And yet they've no choice but to serve him! We _have_ that choice! And it's a choice we must make! Else . . ." He slowly shook his head, then breathed, "I cannot even speak it!"

Although he was surer by the minute that he was dealing with yet another man of ruptured sanity, Quintus could hardly deny the deep feeling of disconcert caused to him by some of the things that Farseer was saying. Namely, his visions of Ulfric—for Ulfric it undeniably was whom he'd seen in his dreams. There simply was no room for coincidence here, and therefore the rest of the things that Farseer was saying were given a disturbing benefit of doubt as well.

_Don't be foolish! Farseer clearly had some mental connection with the Dunmer as well, so of course he may also be able to contact the Stormcloak. After all, his name is_ Farseer _, for Akatosh's sake!_

The white haired man smiled, straightening. "I can see that my words have had an impact. Aye." He nodded his head. "Were I in your place, I'd be shaken to my core as well."

_Your core is shaken, alright._ "As you say," Quintus muttered.

"I cannot lie to you," Farseer said gravely, "it has become increasingly difficult for me to put my faith on anyone outside of these walls. After all, who can say how far this conspiracy goes? For all I know, it may go all the way to the Blue Palace. There is consistent talk about a powerful dark sorceress with wide-spread influence pulling the strings there. Possibly the High Queen herself, as well. I'm sure that you have heard what sort of rumors surround her?" He nodded, as though to answer his own question. "Women, you see, they cannot be trusted. Not one little bit."

"Aha," said Quintus. "And the Emperor? Do you trust _him_?" _And in extension: do you trust me?_ Not that Quintus much cared. He would complete his investigation one way or another. With this man's cooperation or without it.

Farseer regarded him for a long moment. Then the corner of his mouthed quirked in a small smile. "Far as I know, the Imperial office remains uncontaminated. For now."

" _Far as you know_ ," Quintus echoed. " _For now_. Conditionals. Hardly the stuff of deep trust."

"In this world," Farseer said, "this uncertain fabrication of nearly unbearable ambivalence, one simply must accept such things." He hesitated. "As it stands, you have my trust. Call it instinct."

Quintus smiled. _Shows the worth of your intuition, then_. "Tremendous," he said. "That is what I wanted to hear."

Farseer returned the smile. "And you haven't even heard half of it yet."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. Yet further proof that you coming here at this moment couldn't be further from coincidence."

"Meaning?"

Farseer considered Quintus for another expanse of silence. Then he laughed abruptly. "Ah, I feel that you and I can learn a great deal from each other. You and I, you may find, will turn out to be decisive players in this sinister game that's unfolding. Mark—

"Your words, yes," Quintus cut in. "Now, to the gist, yes? What makes you so convinced of the significance of my arrival?"

Shaking his finger at Quintus with a shrewd smirk, Farseer chuckled. "Ah, but you will like this one! I can guarantee you that much. See, it just so happens, we have just last night captured one of them!" The sheer childlike expectation on his face!

"'Them'?"

" _Them_!" Farseer waved his arms. "Of the cult!"

"Aha," said Quintus equably, "and you know this?" Before the other man had a chance of replying, he added, "Never mind. Where do you have him, then?"

" _Her_!" Farseer corrected, his face twisting in disgust. "A most abominable whore of Sithis. A necromancer witch!" He nearly gagged on the last words. "She's holed up in the dungeon downstairs. I have spent the morning preparing myself for the interrogations. And now I am ready." A gleam of anticipation flashed in his eyes as he grinned sinisterly. "I invite you to join me."

Quintus felt a wave of disgust. He felt he'd had a lifetime's worth of dungeons and interrogations. "Yes, of course," he managed. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"The world," Farseer repeated solemnly, "may yet come to depend on what we do this night."

It wasn't simply the dread conviction in the man's words and in the way he pronounced them that caused the chills to course across the length of Quintus' spine. It was the fact that each second seemed to take himself closer to coming to believe in the truth of them.

_Is this how it begins, insanity?_

"Follow me," said Farseer, beckoning. "And soon you will see what I have seen."

_That's precisely what I'm afraid of._

 


	31. The Concurrence

The inn was rife with the stench of humanity. Alcohol, sweat, animosity, lust: the whole works.

Shadya ducked her head as she dove into the noisy, malodorous dive. She took special care not to let her eyes wander over the clientele, judging by the murmur and coarse laughter already well on their voyage to Drunk Town. Head buried inside her cowl, she strode straight to the bar.

As the innkeeper took note of her features, a flicker of displeasure momentarily lit the glassed surface of his regard. But it was gone just as soon. He made no move to serve her, turning his attention back to the devoted task of bringing shine back to the glass in his hand. Looked like a doomed endeavor.

"I'm looking for someone," Shadya said.

"Aye," the man replied without looking. "Well, ain't we all, kitty cat?

Rolling her eyes, Shadya removed a small pouch from her belt and tossed it on the counter. The jangling clomp it made startled awake a rumpled man snoozing against the bar. After a dazed, blinking look about, the hirsute head went right back down.

The innkeep eyed Shadya warily, his regard sliding to the leather bag. Shadya beckoned him closer, and after brief hesitation, he complied. "A Breton, about this tall," she said, gesturing. "Nice clothes, the last I saw. Not exactly quick to smile."

Peering into the sack while listening, the man nodded with a grunt. He then jerked his thumb to Shadya's left, where a short stairway led to a short corridor with short flight of stairs culminating in metallic double doors. "First room to the left."

"Thanks a million," Shadya said, turning.

"Eh-mmm-hmpf," replied the man.

There was only one other room in the hallway in addition to the one at the end, with similar bronze-hued metallic doors as that one. As she reached the doors, those of the other one slammed open inwards. She faced away just as a scantily clad glowering woman stormed past her, soon followed by a man with his breeches around his ankles, holding his crotch, a pained expression on his face. The ruddy fellow hobbled down the stairs after the woman, trying his best to keen appeasing words to her.

Shadya shook her head faintly, took a deep breath. Then she gave the doors three knocks. The metal rang hollow under her fist.

No reply.

Licking her lips, she gave three more knocks. Harder, this time.

Still nothing.

_Guess there's only one way about it, now._

She pressed on the doors tentatively, found them unlocked. She slowly pushed them open, to the low groan of hinges reverberating on the metal surface.

And found an empty room.

Empty but not untenanted. There was an unfinished rabbit haunch on a plate on the narrow ledge by the stone bed, the fur blanket lay rumpled on the floor, and a barely tasted goblet of wine sat on the granite slab used as a desk. A haversack sat atop the desk, and a set of elegant clothes had been neatly folded over the backrest of the chair. In addition to all that, there was the smell of occupancy in the room. The smell of a man; a strong one at that, as if somebody was still there despite the evidence to the contrary.

_Well, if no one's here, I might at least have a little looksee._

After a glance into the hallway to ensure against anyone surveilling her, Shadya slid into the room, closing the doors softly behind her.

There were some papers lying on the desk, a good place to begin the investigation.

She made a motion toward them, when a cold feeling on her throat stopped her in her tracks.

"That's far enough," a low voice rasped close behind her. Was it the voice or the surprise that sent the chills down her spine? "Let's see 'em."

She slowly lifted her paws into view. "I'm unarmed."

She felt the man—for a man it was—pause. His voice was coming from below Shadya's head. "The hood."

The knife left her throat and the man backed up a step. She peeled back the cowl and faced him.

The man first blinked, then frowned. " _Shadya_?"

"Merard," Shadya said, smiling. "I _thought_ I recognized you."

"You—?" Merard hesitated. "Where did you see me? What are you doing here?"

"And that is how you greet an old friend?"

"' _Friend_ '? Is that what we—" His shook his head. "You barged into _my_ room."

"Granted," she said, shrugging. "Curiosity got the best of me, I guess." She congratulated herself on the nonchalance she was able to force into her comportment, despite the butterflies churning in the pit of her gut. Merard's dark, unrelenting gaze nailed her into place, even with the confusion and surprise dominating it.

He stared at her a long moment, frowning, as if trying to fit a piece into a puzzle. Then, suddenly, his features slackened and he cracked a grin. "Well, I can't deny that you took me by surprise. Wasn't expecting company. The pleasant kind, anyway."

_Pleasant, is it now?_ "Where were you hiding?" Shadya asked. "Hanging from the ceiling?"

Merard snorted. "A spell," he said. "Considerably simpler, I'd say."

"Ah. Of course." Shadya _hated_ magic.

"So," Merard said. "What are you doing here?"

"In Markarth or in your room?"

"Both, I guess." Merard shrugged. "Start with Markarth."

"Just taking in the scenes. A little holiday, as it were."

"Uh-huh."

"What, you don't believe me?"

"I believe you," Merard said, mouth quirking. "In fact, that's what I'm here for, as well."

"Indeed? Well, isn't that splendid!"

"Aye," Merard said, studying Shadya with his eyes a trifle narrowed. "Splendid."

"Why don't we take a little stroll together, then?" said Shadya. "Pleasanter to catch up while having some fresh air, don't you think?" _What is it that you think you're doing?_

Merard's expression betrayed surprise, but he quickly recovered. "Sounds good to me. Been holed up inside too long as it is, I suppose."

Shadya smiled, offering him her arm. "Shall we, then?" _No, seriously; what are_ _you up to?_

A brief frown flashed across Merard's handsome features. He eyed Shadya's ears. Her conspicuous ears. "No hood?"

"What?" Shadya said with feigned insult. "You think that I need it?"

"Never me! But the people downtown . . . well, there might be some talk."

"We wouldn't want that, now would we. Very well, then." Shadya pulled up the cowl and offered her arm again for Merard to take hold of. He grabbed it, and out they walked.

* * *

_What in the Void are you doing?_ His arm linked with Shadya's, Merard strolled the narrow street, pretending as if there was nothing unusual going on. To himself as much as anyone else.

The Khajiit was strong, likely nearly as much so as him. With their superior reflexes and physical agility, paired with the long sharp claws hidden within their paws, it was little wonder her kind refrained from the use of external weapons. They were as if physiologically designed for combat, yet usually chose to make their living by other means. Curious.

_Curiosity kills, dear little Merdi!_

"What are you thinking?" Shadya asked. Her cowled head kept facing forward.

"Ah, just what a lovely afternoon we're having." It had, Merard realized, turned out to be a beautiful day. Unblemished sky stretched its azure canopy over their heads, and somewhere beyond the embrace of granite a warm sun beamed down. Still, the streets here felt little of this, exuding the unrelenting dusty coolness of stone.

"Truly," Shadya replied absently.

"So," Merard said, "how've you been liking the sights so far?"

"Could do with a little less stone, myself."

He gave a dry laugh. "Alas, the Dwemer were hardly ones for glades and glens."

"Yeah, well. Neither am I."

Merard glanced over. "Deserts, then?" He saw a faint smile bud about Shadya's feline lips.

"Let's just say I like to be able to see the horizons."

"And see the enemy from farther away." He nodded. "Aye."

"Sometimes," Shadya said, turning her head for the first time. "It's hard enough to see the enemy from right up close."

Merard answered her undecipherable look, paused. "True, that."

Taking a left before they came to face the Keep, they walked the short stairs up to the second level. Then to a flagstone-paved passage carved through the bluff splitting the city, at the other end coming to face the Dockside. To their right, a stairway led up to the Temple of Dibella build onto the bluff. Merard gestured. "Shall we?"

"Lead on."

Arms still locked, they climbed up the stairs. Then, instead of continuing along the last steps turning right and up to the entrance, Merard guided Shadya to a ledge on the left, underneath the Temple's overhanging southeast flank. The low sills between the support columns provided them some place to lean as they took in the scene of the city below them. To their right, a tall waterfall rushed down from the mountains, the waters feeding the slowly turning large millwheel of the smithy down below. This entire side of the city felt the sprays of the cascading waters, and the damp smell clung to the air. Up from the mountains, mist rolled down in thick billows to ensure the steady moisture marking the place. Merard though he could sense Shadya bristling beside him.

_Shadya, Shadya. What are you up to now?_

Over the course of the months that Merard had spent in the province, he and she had had their share of confluences. The first had been as soon as he'd first set his foot in the Guild's quarters. Down on her luck at the time, the Khajiit had turned to them for an odd job, but they had shown her the door as the non-member that she was. And she hadn't showed any interest in becoming one of them, either. Merard hadn't thought much of it at the time, but then he'd run in with her during a job, while doing his first sweep job in some noble's mansion. She'd happened to break in to the one next door, and they'd crossed paths outside. Not long after that, the same thing had happened again, this time a couple holds over. They'd shared words at both times, and on later occasions while running into each other off-work. Nothing particularly deep or involved, to be sure, but it felt good being able to talk to someone who shared your experience. Someone not from the Guild, as Merard couldn't hazard getting too cozy with them.

And here, it seems, they were again. It was a tenuous comradeship between two thieves at best, as even when working for the same outfit, they acted primarily as rivals. And Shadya, to his knowledge, still worked alone.

_A funny coincidence, don't you find? It would be a shame if she got in the way—_

"So," Merard said, breaking the silence. "Been keeping in jobs, then?"

"Oh, you bet," Shadya replied. "And you? Making progress with the Guild?"

"Sure am. Just started working for the Nightingale, as a matter of fact." He immediately wanted to wince. Had he really had to let that one slip by?

What in the word suddenly made him this careless?

Shadya made a hissing sound that Merard knew to be the Khajiit equivalent of a whistle. "Oh, so he's who sent you . . . you know, on this, um, holiday."

"In here on my own volition," Merard said simply. It wasn't a lie, exactly.

"Of course." Shadya nodded. "Of course." She grunted. "Funny, that. We seem to keep running into each other."

"Small world?"

She paused. "Smaller than I'd like, to tell you the truth."

"Finding my company lacking?"

Shadya laughed. It was a strangely melodic sound. He could feel the vibration of it on his skin. "None at all. Just . . . a small world is one difficult to hide in."

"On the run?"

"Not yet." Shadya stretched the words. "But it's always good to keep your options open."

Merard was, he realized, only barely listening. He glanced down at Shadya's feline form leaning against the sill, supple and graceful even garbed in that obscuring cloak. The way she held herself was a strange mixture of wilderness and civilization, but a highly fragile one at that; as if the guise of the higher being might give out at any moment, and the wild beast spring out. It gave her an appealing edge, to be sure. Furthermore, she lacked the constricted introversion that so many of her kind seemed to share. She did not appear to belong with them any more than she belonged with the rest of the world. Merard could relate to that.

But most of all he could not stop admiring the feminine feline's majestic grace.

' _Majestic grace'? You're starting to sound as if—_

"How long," Merard said to stop the inner chatter in its tracks, "were you staying here again?"

Shadya looked as though she was far away.

* * *

"Of course." _Of course! You lying sack of—_

Shadya concealed her irritation with what she hoped to be a convincingly thoughtful—and not irascible—grunt. "Funny, that. We seem to keep running into each other." She wanted to wince. Somehow that had not come out at all as innocently as she'd intended it.

"Small world?" Merard replied.

Shadya thought for a while about what to reply to that. _Think carefully, now—_ "Smaller than I'd like, to tell you the truth."

An ironic smile came upon Merard's lips. "Finding my company lacking?"

Shadya laughed, and it was mainly out of relief over Merard taking her careless words as a jest. He eyed her intently. What was it about the man's stare that made her knees feel so wobbly? "None at all," she said truthfully. "Just . . . a small world is one difficult to hide in."

"On the run?"

"Not yet." Shadya said slowly. She was starting to lose the track of her thoughts, and could not even for sure say what it was that came out of her mouth after that. She noted Merard's dark eyes flick down her form, and could almost feel their burn on her. What was it that he did to make her feel like this? She knew he was a mage as much as a thief, but what sort of magic was it that those eyes held?

There was a laughter in the back of her mind. _Seriously? Just listen to you: like a kit in the throes of her very first heat!_

"Sorry," she said, realizing she hadn't been listening, "what'd you say?"

"How long were you planning to stay in Markarth?"

Was there a hidden barb within that outwardly innocent question? "Ah, I've no plans. You?" _Damn it!_ This was not the sort of game Shadya was practiced in. Couldn't they just shoot straight? And might it truly be simply a coincidence, him being in the place at the same time as her? And while wearing such an ostentatious disguise at that. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was out to do the Nightingale's work—might the Nightingale share Gazalem Nightvale's enthusiasm for old valuable stones? Surely; and if only he knew about this particular one . . .

So, if they truly were after the same prize, surely they might be able to work something out?

_Just LISTEN to yourself for a while, you silly little puss!_

Merard's smile did not reach his eyes, still slightly narrowed. "A day, at most," he said. "Just gonna feel around for a bit."

_Bet you'd like him to feel_ you _around!_

Shadya cleared her throat. "Ah." There was nothing else to add so she looked away, at the repulsive masses of water roiling down the mountainside—gods-damn glad for the fact that the Khajiit were unable to blush!

After some scores of heartbeats of pressing and ever tightening silence, Merard let out an abrupt chuckle. "Hey, do you remember that fellow, Rolf the Rat? He was in the habit of buddying up with thieves, providing them with "assistance" only to rat them out to the guards and then take their loot when the attention was elsewhere. Can hardly believe that the weasel managed to pull it off for years!"

Shadya laughed. "Yeah. Guess he kept finding enough gullible new faces, and the more experienced thieves didn't bother warning them. Dealing with him, I believe, was almost seen as an initiation of sorts. A way to cull out the fools. Though, if I recall it correctly, they said he had managed to swindle at least one of the older hands as well." She shook her head, smiling. "Wonder how he's doing these days."

"Oh, they found his body some time back, naked and hanging off a tree somewhere in the Pale. His entrails had been torn out; but whether this had been before or after his death no one can tell, as they'd been largely devoured by the time he was found."

"Oh," Shadya said, her smile fading. "I see."

More silence, then.

_Whatever did you think to achieve with all this?_ she thought in frustration. There was something that Merard was looking for in the Understone keep, she was sure of it. But then it was not exactly a place devoid of potentially valuable targets. Then, it wasn't from the direction of the Dwemer museum that he had been from coming from. What was on the other side? To Shadya's knowledge, only the excavation site of some Dwemer dwelling. Perhaps there was something there he was after?

But, in any case, she had one advantage over Merard, and that was the fact that he didn't know that she'd been there in the keep. But might he suspect something?

_Well, if you were trying to keep your presence hidden from him, you couldn't have failed much more spectacularly_.

Shadya sighed.

"Something weighing on you?" Merard asked.

She met his penetrating gaze, blinking. _On the other hand, if your plan was to come off as an utter ditz; well, then_. . . "Just tired, I guess."

"Ah. Your nocturnal ways."

_My ways are_ not _nocturnal! Just because I'm a—_ Shadya pasted on a faint smile. "Probably that."

Merard stretched his back. "Tell you the truth, I'm getting rather somnolent myself. I believe I shall spend the rest of the day resting. I don't suppose you'd be offended if I suggest we continue this at a later occasion?"

"In fact, I was just about to suggest that."

Merard smiled. "Great. Shall we say . . . tomorrow then?"

_I don't plan on staying here that long._ "That sounds perfect. Should I come knocking again?"

He paused. "You can just go ahead and let yourself in."

_Was that an . . . insinuation of some kind?_ Shadya's head suddenly seemed to reel. "Very well," she managed.

The walk back toward the inn had her thoughts bouncing back and forth in her skull without any resolution, or even a direction. What had she accomplished with all this? She'd learned nothing of the man's motivations or goals, but then how could she have with their mutual façade of innocence that neither had believed for a second? And to her further chagrin, Shadya realized she could detect nothing awry in his scent. That was most unusual. How did he do it?

There was no way around it. This man was a closed book, from cover to cover.

_I hate playing games_ , she thought. But was it only because she knew she was no good at them?

_Shut up!_ Gods, how she hated her self-aware, reflective psyche at times! Had it truly ever done anyone any good?

_Well, there's obviously no way to solve this particular riddle. Better just focus on the job at hand_. This assessment, at least, she knew for certain to be accurate. Focus on the job. That would surely prove trouble enough as it were, she reflected, as her gaze traveled up the mountain from where the masses of rolling liquid originated.

She aired out a deep sigh. _I hate water, too._

* * *

_You truly are you worst enemy, sonny. Did you know that_?

"Quiet, father," Merard muttered, sitting down in front of the stone desk in his small room, alone once more.

What _had_ she been doing there? Seemingly innocent, sure enough, but surely she had not been nosing around in his room simply to sate her curiosity? All he knew that his instincts were alarming him of . . . something.

_Gods how I do hate riddles!_ He bit down his teeth and squeezed his hand into a fist against the table top. He felt pent up power surging within him, seething to find an outlet. He could destroy this whole room, shower fire and destruction, break the very stone of its foundation.

_You came here to do one job, and one job only. This close to fulfilling our ultimate goal, and you will not come apart on me now! Do you hear me?_

"I hear you." _There is not, in fact, much I can do about that, now is there?_

The voice did not reply. Either it could not hear his every thought, or then there were some that it did not deem worth responding to. Despite the fact that it had never been one for dialogue—a singular, unidirectional will, expecting only compliance: the true voice of a father—the fact that it so easily ignored his own wishes and ideas, as it indeed always had, chafed him at times. Had he no role in this, aside from the one of the executioner? What about _his_ desires? No one had ever asked him about those. Not even Alabistair Adrognese had, for all his pretensions at doing what was best for him. That, it had turned out, had been the least of the man's oversights.

_Are you quite done wallowing now? Because we have a job to prepare for._

"Aye," he muttered. "So we do."

_And, for the record, you ought to know that I don't defer to the wails of crybabies._

"As you say." Merard decided he would need to refrain from making his doubts known any further. Which, in effect, meant concealing them from himself as well. This was yet another art he'd mastered over his long years as a dweller of dark places.

It would be this one last job, or one more after this at most. Then it would be time to move forward to the final stage. Soon, the man behind Merard's many sufferings would finally be held accountable; his would be the last one whose blood would flow, to sate once and for all the seemingly bottomless thirst of the voice in Merard's head. After that, he would be free. Free to do what _he_ wanted. Whatever that turned out to be.

 


	32. The Manor

For the remainder of the journey, Ariela could finally relax. The presence of the four supplementary warriors was enough to finally convince her that she was safe. In fact, she hadn't even really noticed before exactly how tense she'd been during their entire ride, even if she'd never entertained any doubts about Runa being a more than capable bodyguard. Still, there was certainly something to be said for strength in numbers.

Finally relaxing also made it clear to her how very tired she was. She might have fallen asleep on horseback were it not for the constant chatter of Runa and Erik ahead of her. Turned out that the auburn-haired man was so fond of talking that he made Runa pale in comparison. He spoke in passionate, spirited sentences, shifting from this topic to the other, though mainly focusing on the adventures he'd had since they'd last met. It sounded like it had been a while since Runa had last been to these parts. A bit surprisingly, the woman seemed to be content with mostly listening, perhaps well knowing from experience that this man couldn't be bested at the art of mouth-shooting. Erik waved his big hands around while talking, supplementing the flood of words with a resounding bellow here and a hearty laugh there.

Another thing keeping Ariela from dozing off was the beautiful scenery. Higher into the mountains, the nature was a riot of vibrant green. The sides of the narrow trail snaking between the rough rock-strewn hills were rich in plant life. Grasses of the northern variety: clover, fern, thistle, plantain, and something that was either wild chervil or hemlock. Then there were many others, most of them she didn't know; not that she'd had more than desultory studies in either alchemy or botany. The trees were limited to evergreen, spruce and cedar plus a redwood here and there. Of the latter, the most massive ones had been cut down, leaving behind stumps vast enough to use as dinner tables.

After crossing to the other side of the river they traveled though the small town of Riverwood, which she immediately fell in love with. It occurred to her that if she looked up the word 'idyllic' in a dictionary, she'd find a sketch of the town. The thatched-roof buildings flanking the stone-paved main street that split the town were built of roughhewn wood—was this where all the felled redwoods had wound up?—the one two-storied building laid on a stone foundation. Ariela could well picture herself sitting on one of the verandas in front of the houses, enjoying a slow, beautiful summer afternoon. Perhaps she could work—when her scholarly work permitted, of course—part-time at the smithy by the river there, or perhaps at the mill by the water, close to which that burly man was just chopping wood.

These were otiose fantasies, she knew, but they gave her a warm feeling so she held on to them a while longer.

After they had passed the town's gate and moved on, Ariela felt the dull ache of something like homesickness in her breast. It wasn't for her actual home, she realized, but for the little town they had just passed. It was startling to understand how strongly she'd taken to the place. She knew she had to return there once the opportunity arose.

Although, thinking back to it some minutes later, there had been one detail to their passing that had left her with an odd feeling. There had been that old woman leaning on the railing outside the local inn. Gray hair hanging down her face, she'd regarded the passing convoy with weary, impassive gray eyes. But when the eyes had slid to the Scholar, they'd widened momentarily. Just as soon, however, the woman had looked away, silently shaking her head. Ariela hadn't had time to properly register the affair at the time, but now she felt a chill descend down her spine.

_That's the booze talking again_ , she decided. This made her renew her vow of sobriety. She was clearly too sensitive of mind to risk jeopardizing her mental fortitude with drink.

They continued on the road alongside the flowing water, a soft breeze wading through the scene. On both sides of the frolicking river, the rocky slopes were mats verdant green. A deer cavorted down the hill on the other side of the river, coming to an abrupt stop as it noted the humans and then wheeled to run back toward where it came from. High above, an eagle or hawk circled the skies for prey, an alternative explanation for the deer's skittishness. Brightly colored butterflies flitted through the air, a big azure one settling down onto Ariela's horse's mane. She leaned closer to observe the beautiful insect sitting there, its lobed, gauzy wings slowly folding up. Until the horse flicked its ear and sent the bug on its way.

Following the butterfly's course, her attention veered up the mountain on the other side of the river. Up high, barely visible in the mist, a succession of ominous stone arches ran down its side, like the ancient rib cage of some gargantuan black beast. An old temple of some sort? A tomb? Ariela knew Skyrim to be rife with such things: temples and barrows of the ancient Nord, teeming with who knew what dark and unholy forces. She felt a shudder just looking at the fell construction. And there existed a whole class of people who made their living raiding such places! There was madness and there was madness.

And yet, so much of what was known of the past of Tamriel had been originally discovered by such foolhardy individuals. Scholars like Ariela owed a lot to the courage of those who felt compelled to put their own lives on the line to discover ancient secrets. Even if it _was_ avarice that had initially motivated such undertakings, often other people with purer motivations could still also benefit from it. Colleges paid good money for truly meaningful discoveries, and the raiders well knew this. Despite the obvious moral dilemmas inherent in such transactions, it had proven a lucrative deal for both parties for centuries. In some way, these two groups of people, who at face value seemed to be totally different from each other, were very much alike. Only their valued mode of currency was different.

Knowledge from greed, greed from knowledge. The world was a complicated beast in itself.

Putting down her meditations, Ariela tore her eyes away from the ruin to study the path ahead. There was a flattened area of bedrock where the road took a sharp turn to the left, on which stood a triangle of upright slabs of stone, iron banded and tapering, a perfectly rounded hole in each at the middle of the upper half. Each bore a different set of carvings, depicting a person. These were called Standing Stones, she remembered, after a second's uncertainty. They were stones of power to grant different sorts of blessings and abilities to one activating them. In this, they were pretty much identical in purpose to the Doomstones found all across Cyrodiil.

She smiled to herself. It took her back. As a little girl, she'd eagerly devoured Quill-Weave's classic _The Paths of the Doomstones_ series, telling the fictionalized history of said objects. As far as she could remember, the multi-volume saga, an extensive work of historical fiction set in the times of the Reman emperors, had been a very exciting and entertaining read, despite its classic status. And, in fact, reading it was one of the very first things Ariela remembered to inspire her toward a scholarly career. Even if it had turned out that Quill-Weave's take on the Doomstones was much more a result of the author's active imagination than the history and purpose of the real things. But then if schooled and respected scholars often got things dead wrong, how much more could be asked of an author of popular fiction? In that regard, Quill-Weave had done spectacular work. And no one could possibly blame her for a lack of active imagination, not to mention the skill to create engaging storylines and distinct, relatable characters.

From the stones, the path switchbacked higher into the hills to then carry on eastward. Finally, after a quarter hour walk, they turned off the main road to follow a narrow path weaving between conifer trees and boulders. They then arrived in a clearing. There, embraced by evergreens and partly overshadowed by the tall crag to its right, stood a large house with whitewashed plastered walls built into a timber frame, dragon heads adorning the peaks of its ridged roof. Beside it was a small pen with a cow and a couple chickens, and in front, by the road entrance, a small stable building. In addition, another smaller building resided a stone's throw to the right of the main building; Ariela guessed that one to be the living quarters for the people guarding the place, as the main house, despite its impressive size, was likely not large enough to contain a host of warriors.

Lakeview Manor they called it, and she could quickly see why. Situated atop a hill, the manor's position allowed for a lovely view of the lake down the slope in the southwest. Looking at it brought a smile to Ariela's lips. This just about crowned the otherwise pleasant, and thankfully largely uneventful, journey. From what she'd seen so far, these parts of the province truly resonated with her. Having grown up and lived most of her life in the West Weal, she was the child of rocky hills and clement breezes, even if the vegetation up here differed somewhat from what she was used to. But that was just it: there was enough difference to make this an adventure.

Unmounting, she walked past the small pen, smiling at the hirsute cow and at the softly clucking chickens scratching at the turf, one of them slanting her a suspicious glare as she passed. She came to stop at the edge of the slope to watch the clear, crisp blue water glimmer in between the thick brushes of pine trees on the hill. Behind the lake reared a tall, ragged mountain, its many barbed cliffs and clefts coated gray-white by snow and gauzy plumes of mist. Birds greeted her with their song. A gentle breath of redolent wind ruffled her hair which she'd let down to fall on her lean shoulders.

She stretched her legs, and wiggled her aching buttocks nonchalantly in a hope of alleviating their soreness without attracting attention overmuch. Although, it had to be said: her mollycoddled behind had fared all the hardship it endured during the trip remarkably well, as unaccustomed to such travel as it was.

"Pretty nice, huh?" said Erik right behind her, and she jumped. How had he gotten so close without her noticing? And how long had he been standing there? He gave Ariela a remorseful look. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

Ariela feigned insouciance. "Oh, no. It's alright, I was just in my thoughts." Her heart was beating a bit too fast for comfort. Either she'd gotten more startled than she admitted, or then it was the unexpected proximity of the brawny man.

Erik nodded toward the lake. "The water's pleasant; even in the dead of winter, it often stays gentle enough to bathe in."

"That's where you bathe?" Ariela asked. She tried not to focus too hard on the image of him naked, lest her face turn angry red.

"Sometimes," Erik said. He looked Ariela deep in the eyes and gave her a wide, brilliant, somewhat childlike, smile. She was faintly aware of her mouth hanging open, but could think of nothing to do about that at the moment.

His eyes still holding fast to Ariela's, Erik frowned softly. He drew breath. "You know—"

"Well, Erik," said a female voice behind him, and Ariela swore a sharp internal curse at the interruption, "you are nothing if not efficient; but I don't recall telling you to bring the bandits _here._ " The voice was both ironically scornful and profoundly amused; deep in note, the inflection calmly measured and clear.

The grinning Erik swung round. Ariela followed suite. A tall woman stood by the animal pen, hands on her hips, and on her face the most self-possessed expression Ariela could remember seeing on just about anyone. She wore a lavish yet simple green dress with an embroidered overcoat, a fur shawl draped over her shoulders. An amulet nearly the size of Ariela's fist sparkled around her neck.

But it would have hardly mattered if she wore nothing but ashen rags, as no clothes could have dimmed the aura of eminence that hovered about the woman. Tall, with prominent bust and posture so straight it virtually made Runa look hunched in comparison. She looked to have just entered her middle years, though Ariela thought she might have been older too. Her long, straight hair retained its raven color, but was shot through with gray streaks. The woman's body type represented what Ariela had always associated with the word _matron_ , though she was by no means saggy. Instead her form was densely muscled, practically exuding raw strength, yet supple at the same time. Her proud, strong-jawed face bore the usual signs of time, plus a fair collection of faint scars telling the story of her past as a renowned warrior. The narrow and somewhat deep-set eyes were the same piercing blue as Runa's, but spiked with a certain _knowingness_ —wisdom that could only come with age. A small smile played around the corners of her mouth; the gathering of crow's feet there betraying that she often carried that particular expression. She had dark skin for a Nord

Ariela knew well that her mouth was still hanging open. She was slowly commencing the process of considering the possibility of maybe, perhaps soon, doing something about it.

Not just yet, though.

Erik laughed. "Well, you know me," he said. "I can be a bit dense at times."

The woman—Maren, obviously—sniffed, regarding the man with genuine affection in her sharp eyes. Still, you could tell by the way she carried herself that she'd not hesitate to take you to task should she judge it necessary.

Runa walked up from behind and put her hand on the older woman's shoulder. "Hello, mama," she said. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"Indeed it has," said Maren, not without a hint of sarcasm. "What brings you here: need to borrow more money?"

Runa threw her hands up. "Hey, is it so hard to believe I came simply to see my old mother?"

"Well, while it would be the first, I guess it's a remote possibility," Maren admitted. Then she opened her arms wide. "Well? Does the old lady get a hug?"

At the onset, the sight of Runa wrapping arms around her mother might have numbered among the most awkward Ariela remembered witnessing. After a while, though, Runa was able to relax, and she even closed her eyes for a few seconds. Then, as though remembering herself, she opened them and looked at Ariela, a frown coming upon her. She quickly pulled away, gave Maren's shoulder a clumsy squeeze and smiled. "It's nice to see you."

Maren nodded. "You too, Runa," she said, then turned towards Ariela. "And who's your friend?"

Runa looked over to Ariela as though giving her a chance to introduce herself; but at the moment she could think of nothing lucid to say. At least she'd closed her mouth, but was now so struck by the sudden panic at becoming the object of attention that she couldn't bear opening it anew.

"This is Ariela," Runa said then, apprehending Ariela's acute verbal impediment. "She's a scholar; and, I suppose, my current employer."

Maren cocked an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. "I see," she said slowly. "Changed our line of work, have we? Or perhaps there's a scholarly dispute of exceptional ferocity taking place?"

Ariela could see where Runa had gotten her way with the lip.

Runa barked a dry laughter. "Oh, just another wild goose chase for one of Urag's missing books."

"Hum. And here I was thinking that it was not work to your liking."

"Sure isn't," said Runa. "But it sounds as though this time it might even be kind-of sort-of important. Though, of course, I remain skeptical to a reasonable degree."

"You never did see much value in the written word, did you?"

Runa shrugged. "Just don't see the big idea of straining your eyes when you could just as well be learning everything you need by simply paying a little attention. You know, _in the real world_."

Maren smiled. "The so-called 'real world' is just not what it's made out to be," she said, nearly only to herself. She walked over to Ariela and offered her hand. "Nevertheless, welcome to Lakeview Manor. My name, as you might have heard, is Maren."

Ariela grabbed the hand awkwardly. "It's, uh, an honor," she stammered.

"Is it?" Maren asked with a raised brow and a wry smile. "So I guess you've heard the lies?"

"I, uh . . ."

"Leave the poor girl alone," Runa cut in. "Can't you see she's afraid of you? And who could blame her? Face to face with the single greatest living hero of all Skyrim—who _wouldn't_ be!" Runa's voice was so choked up by sarcasm that it almost distracted Ariela from getting annoyed at the Nord's assertion of her mind-state. Almost, but not quite.

A rush of indignation animated her. She did _not_ want to be represented as some poor little girl scared of her own shadow. Not anymore. "I'm terribly sorry," she said, her voice now steady and strong, at least to her own ears. "I admit to being a little bedraggled after my travel." She shot Runa an annoyed glare, but the other woman just smiled her irritating little smile. She turned her eyes back to Maren, who seemed to have her own brand of inextinguishably amused smirk. "I have heard some stories, yes," she said as level as she could. "And so far I've seen little reason to doubt their accuracy. I am honored to meet you, my lady, and am most thankful for your magnanimous welcoming to your beautiful estate." Only one thing kept her from wondering whether she'd gone a touch too far with her pleasantries, and that was the certainty that she indeed had. But she whisked it off with a mental shrug.

Maren's broadening smile betrayed that she shared Ariela's assessment, but she said nothing of it. "Well, you certainly have manners," she simply said, nodded at the house. "My home is your home." Then she turned back to Runa. "Well, what are you waiting for? Show the guest to the facilities so she can get ready for supper. Actually, never mind, I better do it myself." Ignoring her daughter's frown, she addressed Ariela, "I'm sure you're very hungry, but I regret the food has not yet been completed; I wasn't really expecting guests. Perhaps you would like to take a bath before then?"

Ariela could barely contain her excitement. An actual _bath_? "Yes, I would like that very much," she said, scarcely composed.

Maren smiled. "Excellent," she said, and gestured. "Right this way, if you please."

_Please—do I ever!_


	33. The Answers

The cellar greeted Quintus with it stale, musty pong as his feet sought purchase on the creaky narrow steps of the old ladder. He ducked his head all the way in through the trapdoor and had to blink his eyes in the gloom for some seconds before the room underneath started to take shape. In the very farthest corner of the contracted, corridor-like space flickered a torch on its very last legs, and no other sources light were present. A thin sheen of mildew made the gray walls of natural stone glisten in the dim glow, and above their heads hung thick swathes of cobweb. Remarkably like a tomb.

At least the smell was better here than it had been underneath the Blue Palace.

_Small comfort_.

"You'll have to excuse us the state of disrepair down here," said Cristus Farseer leading the way, "but we see little reason why the servants of darkness should reside in luxury while under our detention."

"Logical," Quintus said, hopping off the second-to-last step—the bottommost one had rotted off. He dusted his clothes off ostentatiously. "I have to take it you do not receive many more esteemed guests."

Farseer eyed him for a second, with a gleam in his eyes Quintus took to be a touch too ironic for comfort. "Yes. That is a most accurate observation." Then, before Quintus had a chance to reply, he spun. "Back here. Let me just light another torch so we can see what we have to work with here." There, in the corner where the torch stood in a rusted bracket, the cellar turned sharply to the right to widen into an alcove just under ten paces deep. At the back, Quintus saw a person-shaped shadow sprawled against the wall.

Farseer fussed for a time with his flint and tinder, not seeming to make much progress. Then he cursed. "Ah, never mind these!" His lips moved slightly as he raised his hand. A cobalt-tinged bright glow burgeoned at the tips of his bony fingers, and soon the room was ablaze with the unnatural radiance of a magelight. Farseer withdrew his hand, and the small arcane sun remained hovering just above his white-haired head. "There we go." He smiled.

The chamber now fully illuminated, the person-shaped shadow was revealed as a human female. Young, judging by her physique, even though the long black hair dangling over her face concealed her features. Her position was as Ulric's had been: spread-eagled, wrists and ankles shackled to iron bars bolted into the wall, her head sagging as if asleep. She was, Quintus noted with some distaste, completely naked.

"You are fooling no one, woman," Farseer said coldly. "Face us now; the time has come for you to confess your crimes in front of a higher authority."

The woman snorted loudly before she as much as twitched a muscle. And when she lifted her head, a profoundly contemptuous smile stretched her thin lips out wide. They were cracked bloody on one side, and a fresh purple bruise had burgeoned on her left cheek and around the eye. She was indeed young, barely into her third decade. Her green eyes held abundant disdain and pride but, to Quintus' assessment, no trace of fear.

"Well?" Farseer snapped. "Have you naught to say?"

The woman cocked her head at the Vigilant, much like a bird, then swung her eyes to Quintus. "I see you brought your boyfriend," she said in a cracked yet steady voice. "It's truly a beautiful thing to witness, how even old codgers can find love."

Farseer eyed the Chief Inspector. "See, what we have to deal with? They are so corrupt, so irrevocably contaminated that they are unable to feel remorse or fear, even when the gods' judgement is about to descend upon them."

_Gods' judgement, huh? Is_ that _what he calls it_? Once more, there was an uncomfortably external feeling to the thought that arose in Quintus' mind. The lack of drink, the fear for his personal safety, and the constant proximity of lunatics was truly starting to get to him, eating away at his own sanity. "Yes," he muttered, if only to conceal his discomfort. "I don't envy you."

Farseer's eyebrow shot up. "Envy? Oh, but you should! Truly you should! I make no complaint, for this is what I was born to do. This is my holy duty, and I take utmost pleasure in fulfilling it!"

The woman snorted again, and Quintus felt as though the sound was echoed by his own thoughts. He glanced at her large breasts, hanging down along her ribcage. "Does she need to be naked?"

"What," the woman sneered, "your little cock getting hard?"

Ignoring her, Farseer fixed Quintus with a firm and a touch perplexed gaze. "We are all naked in front of the Divines."

"Ah, yes," Quintus said, "of course."

"But I do catch your meaning; and there is no cause for worry. We demand the absolute level of chaste purity of our acolytes. So they are quite immune to the charms of the female flesh, and therefore safe from its corrupting influence."

"Yes," Quintus muttered. "As you say."

Cristus Farseer's eyes narrowed. "Are you a devout man, Inspector?"

" _Chief_ Inspector," Quintus corrected.

"Chief Inspector," Farseer repeated. "Well, are you?"

"Well, now, that depends entirely on what precisely one means by 'devout'."

After a pause, Farseer grunted. "Semantics. Evasion. No doubt the commanding traits of your ilk."

"I'm sorry," Quintus said, "my 'ilk'?"

"A mere turn of phrase," said the Vigilant leader, shrugging. "I mean, of course, the men of—"

"Ahem," the woman broke in. "Excuse me, but is this going to go on much longer? 'Cause I can't imagine a worse torture than to have to listen to you two prattle on—"

Farseer swung around to clout the woman in the face with the back of his hand. Her head whipped to the side. "Silence, you whore of darkness! You will know it when it is your turn to speak."

The woman's head hung down momentarily. When she lifted her face again, the contempt in her eyes had given way to flaming venom. The split in her lip had started to bleed anew, blood collecting in the corners of her mouth. "I'll have you pay for that," she said quietly.

"I said _SILENCE_!" Another blow, dealt with the middle knuckles of a half-closed fist, sent the woman's head swinging the other way. Then her head sagged in earnest, blood mixed with spittle splattering over her chest, running down her breast in small rivulets.

"She does have a point, you know," Quintus said. "Perhaps it would be in order to get on with it?"

Farseer eyed him from underneath the strands of hair fallen over his face, his mouth twisted in disgust. He then grunted. "Aye. Very well. Though the divines have limitless time and therefore limitless patience, we mortals, alas, do not."

"My words exactly," Quintus said.

Sighing, Farseer walked to a weapon rack bolted to the wall next to the woman. He picked up a stave hanging there in between a longsword and a mace. It was long and slim and projected thin tendrils resembling tree roots out of its tip.

Training the staff at the woman, he made his voice firm and sonorous. "Tell me now: whom do you serve?"

The woman face snapped up, and she spat at Farseer. The sizeable crimson wad took him on the chin, spattering down on his long silvery beard. "Fuck your mother!"

Farseer extended the staff, pressed the tendrils against the exposed skin of her side. Quintus flinched at the sudden flash of bright light followed by an ear-piercing crackle. The noise nearly drowned out the woman's scream as her body jolted against her fetters.

Farseer retreated the staff, his face devoid of expression. He let the woman collect her rasping breath, then spoke anew. "I repeat: _whom do you serve_?"

Her teeth flashed, pearl stained with red. "Fuck your father, too!"

This time Farseer pressed the tendrils against the side of her right breast. Quintus could resist the urge to flinch this time; but watching the woman jog and jerk under the onslaught, listening to her shrieking, unsettled something in his insides. He felt his check muscles bunching.

Retrieving the staff this time, Farseer waited in silence for the shackled woman to recover.

Once she did, there was nothing in her eyes to bespeak defeat. She managed a spiteful grin. "Oh yeah!" she said slowly, as if recovering a pleasing memory. "Already _did_ fuck your father. Did it while your mother watched!"

Farseer sighed. He pressed the tip of the rod between the woman's parted thigs, just under the thick tuft of dark, curly hair. Another crackle. More screaming, taking on the quality of a keening wail. Farseer kept applying the spell longer this time, and the gleam in his eyes might have been more than simply a reflection of the unholy magic that he wielded. Quintus looked away as discreetly as he could, struggling not to wrinkle his nose as the smell of burning hair flooded the cellar.

Finally, Farseer relented, and the woman sagged against her bonds. A trickle of piss ran down her leg, pooling on the stone floor underneath her. Judging by its dark color and rank smell, she was suffering from dehydration. An image of Ulfric irrevocably sprung to mind: the ancient-looking man with his skeletal limbs and his flaking skin covered by unsightly rash, smeared with his own wastes.

A low growl erupted from deep within the slumped woman's chest. " _Ooohhhh_ -oh!" she groaned. "Curse you, priest! And curse your pathetic Divines! You will pay for this dearly!"

Cristus Farseer turned to Quintus, an odd little smile on his face. "See, now, I think we are making progress already!"

The woman snarled at him, blood spraying from between her teeth as she hissed. "I'm going to deliver you to Sithis myself. And I believe that I will take my sweet time with it, too, you son of a whore—" Her curse dissolved in another round of crackles and screams.

Finally, the woman seeming to lose consciousness, Farseer set the staff down to lean against the wall. He faced Quintus, mopping his brow with a sleeve. "Oh, but she is an obstinate one. Perhaps we'll have more luck with more . . . _traditional_ methods. Pinchers, hot irons, and the like." Quintus thought that he saw anticipation for more than just information in the shine of the man's eye. "Do you wish to bear witness?"

"I do not," Quintus replied.

Farseer gave him a curious look, then: half disappointed, half surprised. In the end, he shrugged. "It's just as well. Perhaps it indeed be better I get to concentrate wholly on the task at hand."

"Undoubtedly better." Quintus realized that his mouth was bone dry. What he wouldn't give for a drink!

"You go on and rest while I work, Chief Inspector," the man said, ushering him toward the ladder. "Eat. Sleep if you must. Recover your strength for later. And do not worry yourself, I shall share with you everything that I learn from the witch. Together, you and I, we shall deliver her kind a most decisive blow, once we have what we need on them. This I know deep in my bones!"

Deeply discomforted, Quintus clambered up the steep stairs. Based on what little he had learned from the man, he knew that he would have liked to be as far away as possible from the bones of Cristus Farseer. And yet, it was almost as if a small voice in the back of his head kept whispering to him, telling him that this profoundly unpleasant man was going to lead him straight to what he had come here for. And though he did for some reason know this to be true, it didn't mean he had to like it.

* * *

It had been altogether impossible for him to focus on repast, not to even speak of sleeping. The floor planks, it turned out, were not much for dampening sound. Quintus had for the past two hours been listening to the curses and the screams from the cellar where Farseer had been interrogating the so-called necromancer witch. During this time scarcely two bites had gone past his lips. Not that he wasn't hungry, but the way his stomach kept twisting and turning listening to the abominable proceedings downstairs, it was all he could do not to heave out what was in it to begin with.

Then, finally, it got quiet, and he dared hope. He listened to the silence, half expecting the shrieking to commence again at any moment. But shortly the floor hatch creaked open, and the matted white hair on top of Farseer's head came into view. The sweaty man scrambled out of the hole, slamming the hatch shut behind him and locking it. Turning toward Quintus, he glanced down at his hands and found them bloody, then produced a kerchief from his pocket.

Wiping his hands, Farseer walked over to where Quintus was sitting in front of a table full of mostly untouched food. He sat down on the opposite side. "Well," he sighed, "the bitch was an obstinate one, but I broke her in the end."

"She is dead, then?"

Farseer looked away, seeming exhausted. "No, she lives. For now."

Although curiosity tickled his gut, Quintus withheld the urge to rush the man about what he'd found out. "She spoke?" he simply said.

"Aye." Farseer nodded, still looking away. "She spoke, alright. Earlier than I'd expected." There was something like disappointment in his manner.

"Seems like you enjoy what you do," Quintus said.

Farseer switched to study the Chief Inspector. "I do," he said then.

Quintus' eyebrow rose before he was aware of it.

"It is my job," Farseer said levelly, "to guide lost souls back toward the light which they've forsaken. Sometimes—nay, most of times—it means harsh measures. The grip of Sithis is a strong one, and requires a firm, unwavering hand to break it!"

"Ah," Quintus said, "a true altruist."

Missing, or choosing to ignore, the sarcasm in Quintus's words, Farseer waved a weary hand. "Indeed. If only more people realized the grave importance of your work here. The sacrifices we make for the wellbeing of the whole Empire. Of the whole world!"

Quintus drew breath to insert another caustic remark.

Farseer went on before he had the chance. "Who else had gone to the extent that we have here to fight the armies of darkness that abound? There was Isran, aye. But he was a fool, and it cost him his life! He ought to have never left the Vigilants to found his foolish, doomed renegade outfit." His features twisted in disdain. "Had he stayed, who knows what we might be today! What we may have accomplished already."

Quintus thought of another snide observation.

"But the true war!" Farseer fumed. "Is not fought in the hills and caves of this forsaken land. Nay! This, what we do here, is but the direst manifestation of the true war: that which rages within the breast of every mortal trapped in this counterfeit world. And that war, I am afraid, we are slowly losing." He shook his head so that beads of sweat sprayed about him. "People idle away their lives, chasing after the phantoms of their own petty desires and ideas, on the leash of Sithis. Unknowing of the fact that all of their vain pursuits but tie them more securely to his dread wheel of endless misery! Oh, if only they could receive the light of Aetherius into their hearts, if only for a second! Then they would no longer remain ensnared by the Lord of Death."

Unexpected, Quintus felt the sting of irritation. "Well," he said, "perhaps if the _light of Aetherius_ would make a bit more effort and show itself to them, maybe they'd feel more of an initiative."

Farseer looked stricken. "Surely you jest! You only see it every single time your no-good carcass hits the vile dirt of this world! What do you think the Dreamsleeve is but the blessed light of _Anui-El_? It welcomes your soul back to its loving bosom, no matter how utterly undeserving you are of its blessings! Cleansing away every memory of the terror you've had to experience down here, seeks to cleanse the defilements you've garnered.

"But is that enough? No! For each time, you are beckoned back by the seduction of the God of Darkness. And so you abandon your own salvation, to take another birth and return into this phony word. You forsake the One True Light for the benefit of _this_! This . . . _Gray Maybe_!" He spat the last words with utmost contempt. "So hungry are you for suffering and so eager to die again and again and _again_! And, who knows, perhaps _this_ time you'll be lucky enough to have your soul claimed by the Dread-father himself, to spend eternity in the utter darkness of the Void that you so desire!"

"You speak of the Dreamsleeve," Quintus said, curious in spite himself. "I have heard the concept, but excuse my ignorance about its specific nature."

"It's a mystery!" Farseer said. "To most. But I have personally scried into it more closely than perhaps any other being living today. At the risk of my very sanity!"

_I believe we can all observe the result here._

"I believe," the man went on, "the Dreamsleeve to be the barrier between Mundus—this sithic creation, a false world—and Aetherius, the true home of our souls. It exists to cleanse the soul of all the muck and horror before allowing it into the true anuic reality. It seems to wipes away the memories and conditionings that taint the soul, to incise way the corruption like the malignant growth that it is.

"Alas, but the soul remains a free-willed entity, and despite the utmost purity it is now faced with, it is most often called by the voice of Sithis. As if by reflex, the soul takes to that call, causing it to recoil. It is hard to believe, but the common soul at this point finds itself profoundly frightened by the purity in front of it! On account of its defilement, or simply its conditioning, it is unable to resist that call, and so is pulled back to Mundus. It clings to the defilements, the memories, its own past actions, and those then form the conditions of his future existence. The soul creates itself the conditions that it believes that it deserves. Creates its own lie, in a sense. Its own _punishment_ , to be frank! So, instead of being burned away, the memories are rather transformed into a new existence."

Cristus Farseer drew breath after his singularly heated delivery. Mixed with the exhaustion of his eyes was a burning zealous fire. "So, you see, even the direst torture inflicted upon the flesh of the heretic is in its basis an act of proudest love. We remind the soul of the horrors implicit in this mode of being. Besides." He waved a trivializing hand. "Should the soul go beyond the barrier of Dreamsleeve, all memory of pain would be eradicated to be replaced by nothing but inconceivable bliss. A decent tradeoff, I think."

_How convenient._ "And so they spend eternity in the light?" Quintus said. What was it about the prospect that sounded so profoundly dull?

"The light." said Farseer. "That is naught but a symbolic representation of the reality of Aetherius, beyond senses and thus inconceivable to the mundic being. You see light, for our minds, is the most accurate symbol for purity. And should the soul complete the process, this light would be the last thing that it will perceive in the way it is accustomed to, before entering true reality beyond senses. Anything we could possibly say about Aetherius can only ever be a metaphor. Only once the transformation is complete, can the soul begin to conceive of what it means to finally be home."

"I see," Quintus said, ascertaining that the rant was over. He felt the urge to probe at Farseer's imaginative theoretical construct. "And how, exactly, will the memories become a new existence?"

He was met with silence. Farseer studied him glumly, from under thick eyebrows upon which sweat had gathered.

_You have no idea, do you? Incapable of even explaining your own incoherent beliefs!_ "Never mind," Quintus muttered. "Forgive me, if I remain skeptical, however."

"Stendarr forgives," Farseer said after a pause. "We do not."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind," the Vigilant leader replied, as if mimicking Quintus. "You've no need to apologize to me, however. Your journey is, as is your soul, your own. There will come a day when you will doubt no longer."

"Very well," Quintus said, laying his hands palms down on the tabletop. "In the meantime, however, I still have an investigation to conduct."

"Aye." Farseer nodded. Then a wide grin took over his weathered face. "You will be more than pleased to hear the news then."

"Aye?"

Farseer leaned on the table, gnarled fingers splayed, and Quintus tried not to breathe in the man's odor.

"Aye," the unpleasant man breathed out: a foul draught. "For tonight will see a grand assault against our foes. The witch confirms what I've suspected for months: there is a nest of those repugnant fiends not far from here, one essential for whatever it is that they are planning! And tonight, it would seem, their defenses are low. This for us is the sort of opening we've been waiting for, and you can be certain we are not going to squander it. We will use full force and break them down, dealing a decisive blow which may yet prove to turn this entire long war to our advantage. We truly are living significant, exciting times!" He giggled. "And you!" He waved a finger at Quintus, expression suddenly grave. "You are going to bear witness. You will join the assault!"

_Like Oblivion I will!_ "Ah." Quintus pushed his chair back to make some distance between them. "I'm terribly sorry," he said in measured, solemn tones, "but I'm going to have to take a pass on this one. Thank you, but no thank you, in other words." He made to rise, nearly tripping on his legs.

"Oh," Farseer said, his smile quirking slyly, "but you're mistaken there. You will, as I have foreseen it! And what's more, it is absolutely vital you take part in this! Much depends on it. Not the least your . . . investigation."

Quintus' brow rose, and he gave up on the standing up. "I . . ."

"You!" Cristus Farseer confirmed. "You are going to make _history_ , man!"

_I'm going to_ be _history_. "This is really not anything I qualify . . ."

Farseer waved a hand, knocking over the water pitcher. "Qualifications are nothing! There will be plenty of qualified men about. You." He reached out to tap the side of Quintus' head. "You I need for your mind and only for that. You will hang back and let the others do the hard labor, and you watch. Later, people of many decades—nay, centuries!—will cant your recountal again and again to make sense of what will happen tonight. What it meant." He paused for a second, frowning. "What it _will_ mean? Will have meant?" He shook his head. "Anyway, it will be momentous. It will begin here . . . um . . . _there_!"

"I'm really not sure . . ."

"Oh, but I am! And that will be plenty enough."

Quintus sighed, hanging his head. He grudgingly had to admit that it made sense. He'd come this far, prompted by one lunatic to find another. But there seemed to be a certain . . . consistency to it all, one he could not ignore, no matter how he wanted to. And oh did he want to! "Well," he said finally, "perhaps you are right. Perhaps I truly must come with you."

"Indeed you must! And indeed it is done as it must! You will join us, and thus find precisely what you're looking for. Tonight, your destiny will be made! Don't ask me how I know. But this, this I see more clearly than anything." Farseer's eyes went ludicrously wide. "And _triumph_ , of course! Yes, yes. Tonight, the future will be forged! Great future! Horrendous future! But quite inevitable, however it may be!"

If he hadn't before, Quintus finally reached a point when he'd had all he could take of the man's ravings. He would go on this crazy wild goose chase that would probably avail him naught more than to see him dead. If for no other reason, just to get away from here. How had he just _known_ it would turn out like this?

On the other hand . . . there was the fact of Farseer dreaming of Ulfric Stormcloak, or the wretched wraith that man had become. There was still the off chance that there was truth in the lunatic's words.

Tired of the way his mind ran in circles, he sighed deeply. "Alright, so when are we leaving?"

"We, uh, _you_ will be leaving once everything is ready. Not later that at midnight! Aye: that is the hour for hunting down the spawns of darkness!"

Quintus frowned. "Wait just one minute—you're not coming?"

Cristus Farseer wrung his hands, a thoroughly unconvincing expression of regret on his face. "Alas I cannot leave this place! I am the true guardian of our order. Plus, I may still need to interrogate the prisoner a bit." His eyes glazed over just a hint, in an almost dreamy manner. "Just to be on the safe side."

Quintus suppressed a shudder.

It was all the same . . . nay, _better_ that the repulsive man was not coming along. Things would undoubtedly go far more smoothly without his insane influence. Yes, much better. _Decidedly_ better!

_Wait, am I starting to sound like_ him _now?_

Quintus rose in a clatter of cutlery and plates. He could not get out of this room fast enough, before its tainting influence seeped any farther into his soul. He would spend the time before their departure with his companions if he had to. He would walk circles outside if it came to that. But he would not have a longer conversation with this man. Not now, for sure; not ever, if he could choose freely. He was done, utterly, completely done with madmen.

"Tell your entourage," Cristus Farseer proclaimed at his back, "that they are as free to join the mission as much they are to stay behind. I assure you our force is quite sufficient." He giggled. "Your choice."

_My choice_ , thought Quintus, his lips quirking sourly downward, _would be to have you and your men hanged come sunrise. No, at once—the sooner the better!_ Without a reply or a backwards glance, he stormed out the door and slammed it closed behind him.

Indeed, the times when his choices had mattered seemed to be in the past. But that would change. _By gods_ , but it would.


	34. The Family Dinner

Ariela let out a deep, long sigh, and it was one of profound pleasure. Pleasure, and relief.

She stood naked by the bathing basin at the back of the manor's upstairs, in the separate section built for the purpose, with its tiled floor sloping toward a draining outlet in the middle. A pumping mechanism brought cold water from downstairs, to be mixed with boiling water carried by hand. As she had gotten in the water had been almost too hot, and she'd lingered until it was a little too cold to be comfortable anymore. Then, reluctantly, she had gotten out. The water was a tinted brown after her. A while had passed since her last bath.

She'd dried herself with the large and luxurious linen towel Maren had given her, which now lay crumpled on the floor. She stood there for some minutes, looking down at her exposed form. She was struck by how emaciated she had become, the skin on her belly as tight as a drum, ribs clearly visible. She'd never really had much in the way of breasts, but it now looked as if what little she'd shown was getting yet more nonexistent. Her brown nipples were hard and compressed in the cool air, and she thought that they looked absurdly large juxtaposed with the meager bust they were attached to. Lower down, beads of water still clung to the scraggly bush of hair growing between her skinny thighs.

A change of fresh clothes lay waiting on a stool in the adjoining room. She'd dug them out of the bottom of her backpack, and as rumpled as they were, they were still clean. At first, Maren had offered to lend some nicer garb to her, but it was soon evident nothing of her fit the bony scholar—even the few dresses that Maren had kept from her younger days.

But Ariela didn't complain. Clothes were clothes, her body good enough as it was. She felt so relaxed now, after the bath, that she was pretty much fine with everything. Even the pangs of hunger in her belly felt like a blessing in the light of the knowledge that she would soon be well fed. The smell of what was bound to be scrumptious food wafting from downstairs was simply celestial. Made her mouth water.

Before getting dressed, she walked by the window in the other room and looked out. Erik was having an early-evening sparring session with one of his men. He'd removed his shirt, and Ariela watched as his muscular body twisted back and forth with him swirling and swinging his weapon about. She smiled, but soon after was hit with the sting of remorse. _What am I thinking?_ This man was nearly twice her age, there was no way anything could ever come of it. She was just being foolish. A silly, naive little girl.

Nevertheless, the smile on her lips lingered, as did her eyes on his figure. This was a grown man, not a boy like so many of the "men" her own age were. He'd been around, seen things. He would understand the world better than the younger ones, knew there was much more to it than met the eye. And, after all, Ariela had always, ever since a little girl, felt much older than her years. More mature, by far, than other children; or, in all truth, most adults that she'd known.

So why not?

She shook her head quietly, then sighed and left the window. Walking by the stool, she got dressed. And in spite them being wrinkled, she found her clothes comfortable to wear.

She went into the bedroom connecting the bathing area to the hallway, about to go join the others in the dining hall downstairs, when her attention was captured. Her eyes went to the huge sword sitting in a rack mounted to the wall above one of the two beds. The greatsword was nearly the height of Ariela herself, its hilt as long as her forearm. The charcoal steel of the rune-adorned blade was burnished despite being worn, covered with myriads of little impressions, nicks, and scrapes. This was a weapon that had in its day seen some heavy use.

She spent a moment picturing Maren swinging the monstrous thing, cutting down foes left and right—bandits, Draugrs, Stormcloaks—all the while wearing a fierce grimace. What would it be like: to be so fearless, so strong?

Running her finger down the length of the blade, it felt almost like a living thing. With the amounts of blood that it must have spilled, perhaps in a way it was. Perhaps it had absorbed some of the life force of those it had cut off from the world of the living. She very carefully felt the edge of the blade: it was still quite sharp. She shivered at the thought of finding herself at the wrong end of such a weapon. How painful it would be, being felled by such an unholy thing. How frightening to even be faced by someone wielding one. She'd take being crushed by a bookshelf over that, no contest.

"Are you about done splashing around up there?" came Runa's loud call from downstairs. "Food's done, and we're getting a little hungry here."

Ariela smiled. Now that she had rinsed the stress and the discomfort of the road from her body, despite still being very tired, she found Runa's undeniably grating crassness to be nothing more than a distinct and charming part of the woman's personality. She simply could not get irritated by anything at the moment, it seemed.

The stairs creaked pleasingly underfoot as she walked down to the Manor's large main hall serving as the dining room. The table was set. Maren and Runa were sitting down, along with the housekeeper, named Ania, who was apparently also the cook. She was a small, friendly woman with mousy brown hair like Ariela's and a welcoming smile with more than a couple of teeth missing.

On a chair by the kitchen entrance, a gray-haired bard sat tuning his lute.

"Well, finally," Runa said, impatiently drumming her fingers on the top of the large maroon dining table. "We were starting to think you might have dissolved into the water."

Maren gave her daughter a brief disapproving glare, then smiled at Ariela. "Never mind the crank, dear. She's been like this since very young. Was everything the way you liked?"

Ariela was nodding fervently. "Oh, yes. Yes. It was very good; I enjoyed it very much. Thank you, madam." She even added a clumsy little curtsy.

Runa rolled her eyes, and even Maren showed signs of amusement. "It's no problem, Ariela," she said softly. "Here in Skyrim we have a custom of treating our guests to the best we have to offer." She looked her deep in the eye. "And please, call me Maren."

Ariela nodded. Then she took a quick look around the room. The furnishing was done tastefully. Although everything was clearly of very good quality, the overall impression avoided any sort of excess. Cabinets and tables by the walls, interspersed with barrels, casks, and crates. One long embellished rug on the flagstone floor, atop which stood the long dining table skirted by plush-cushioned chairs, a long linen tablecloth running down its middle. At the end of the table, a cooking pot suspended from a spit in front of a mantled fieldstone hearth, and high above the hearth, at the level of the galleried upstairs landing bordering the hall, a bolted stag head hung looking down upon the whole.

One thing was missing, though. "Erik and the others aren't joining us?"

Runa snorted, while Maren simply shook her head. "No," she said. "They have their own supping accommodations."

"Oh," Ariela said, disappointed. She'd been looking forward to Erik's company.

"Yeah," said Runa. "The dogs dine outdoors."

"Runa," Maren said, in a tone that just begged the following, "mind your manners", which nevertheless never came.

Runa looked at Ariela, smirking.

_Damn her_ _!_ Ariela thought. _Had_ the Nord figured her out about Erik?

Maren gestured to a chair next to Runa. She herself sat opposite to her daughter at the end of the long table. Ania was positioned a couple seats further, at the other end. "Have a seat," Maren said. "You must be starving."

_That seems about a fair assessment_ , Ariela thought as she sat down.

Close to drooling, she let her eyes take in all the food on the table before she let go of all inhibition and dug in. The meal sure was exquisite: pork shoulder roasted in black pepper and cinnamon, going with a thick, honeyed and spiced brown sauce; pheasant roast carved into thin ribbons; grilled potatoes, garlic, onions, and carrots; boiled chicken eggs; three different kinds of cheeses, both hard and soft; fresh potato bread and, as was a common Nord custom, butter to go on it; and honey nut treats for dessert. Drinks consisted of water, ale, wine, and home-made blackcurrant mead, which—even with her earlier solemn oath of sobriety fresh in mind—Ariela simply could not bring herself to decline. It was both sour and sweet and it was good; and it was strong. Having just one glass further helped her to relax.

She examined the mother and daughter while they ate, and took note of how similar they were in deportment. Although, where Maren's method of dining was rather dignified and stately, Runa was chomping the food down in a manner more akin to a half-starved bear—chewing with her mouth open, shoving in more meat before bothering to swallow the previous, slurping her drink loudly, and wiping the grease and ale which ran down the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. Yet, such obvious divergences aside, there was something very similar between the two women. Something Ariela couldn't quite put finger on.

Maren became aware of Ariela's scrutiny. "What is it?" she asked, a characteristic cordially wry little smile playing about her lips.

Ariela felt a little embarrassed at being caught ogling. "Oh, nothing, nothing," she muttered.

"No, it's something," Maren insisted. "Go on, don't be shy."

"Well," Ariela said. "Nothing much, really. It's just that I've been observing you two, and I can really see the family resemblance."

Maren only raised an eyebrow, then gave Runa an indecipherable look.

"What?" Ariela said.

"The thing is," said Runa, her mouth still full of food. She washed it down with ale and belched. "We're technically not related."

"Huh?"

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Runa said, a bit testy. "I was adopted."

That _was_ odd; they looked so much alike! "But you look so much alike!"

Maren shrugged. "Coincidence."

Despite being a bit stunned by the revelation, Ariela couldn't help a little laugh at the similarity of the older woman's mannerism to Runa's. They seemed to share the same general dispassionate way of reacting to things.

Both women frowned. "What?" they said univocally.

Ariela shook her head, amused. "It's just remarkable. There's just this very striking similarity between the two of you. I find it astounding, you not being related by blood."

"What can I tell ya," Runa said with a shrug. "That's just the way of it." Then she went back to eating.

Maren, in contrast, still studied Ariela, her expression one of appreciative acumen. "I've a feeling that you have a way of seeing things missed by most—am I right?"

"Well, I don't know about that," Ariela replied, bashful. To avoid an impression of fraudulent modesty, she added, "I mean, after all, I was fooled by you two. Though I do see how wrong I was, now." It was true, there were some significant differences in facial structure and body type. How could she have missed them?

"True, but the difference is you were looking, observing and taking note. That's not like most people I've met. Most people spend their entire lives walking blind, just accepting the world as it presents itself, or how they've been taught it is."

"Well, I _have_ been trained as a scholar," Ariela acquiesced. "And to be fair, most people don't really get the privilege of the kind of education I have; not to mention the luxury of all the time that goes into acquiring one."

"Were you brought up by tutors from birth, then?"

"Well, no, of course not."

"So you had to have something in you in the first place, to make you want to obtain all that schooling." Maren's voice was imbued with audible self-satisfaction.

Yes, there was definitely a resemblance. What difference did it make if they weren't bound by blood? Runa had been in close contact with this woman since a small child, so of course she would have absorbed something of her ways.

Ariela could not deny Maren had a point, but being the object of the conversation made her feel increasingly uncomfortable. "You yourself seem like someone who doesn't let much escape her attention."

"Yes, well," Maren said, "years dealing with merchants has a way of forcing one to become that way. Not that my years spent with sword and armor didn't have their part to play." She glanced at Runa, as if waiting for a comment, but the younger woman was fully absorbed in her food. "All in all, I've spent my entire life in a world where most things of importance were not given to you straight, where instead you had to develop a sharp eye to spot them. I would have lost my head—and later, my gold—many times over, had I not been able to read my opponent, to figure out what was happening behind their eyes."

"Was it like with the civil war too?" Ariela asked, then immediately wondered if she'd crossed the line to a sore territory. Many times, she'd learned, war veterans didn't like to talk about their experiences, and rather tried to forget all about them. An effort, she was sure, rarely all that successful.

Maren, however, showed no sign of shirking the subject. "Yes, actually. That was exactly how it was. Unfortunately, though, I was far too young and naive to know it at the time." She quietly shook her head. "Honestly, I have no idea how I even managed to survive that debacle. I was so blind, just going with my instinct and my impeccable sense of doing the right thing. I was so sure of myself— at the time."

"But from what I've heard, you played an important role in the overthrowing of Ulfric."

Runa had also taken a break from eating and was now watching her adoptive mother intently.

"Yes, suppose that's true," Maren consented. After a pause, she said, "I'm just not sure if it was all worth it."

That statement baffled Ariela. Runa hissed quietly by her side, slowly shaking her head. In the background, the bard had finally finished turning, and started to play. He plucked a few clear notes from his lute and opened his voice. His baritone was deep and clear and very resonant.

Maren must have known how Ariela would react. "I know, I know," she said. "How can a supposed 'war hero' say such a thing? But it's true. The civil war was a nothing but one giant mess. Brother against brother, sister against sister. So much blood spilled, but for what? For the glory of the Empire? I too believed it was important at first; but after the fall of the Stormcloaks, I started to increasingly doubt whether what we'd done had really been the right thing."

Runa could not contain herself any longer. "I can't believe I'm hearing this again! You're still thinking like this, after all these years? I thought age was supposed to bring wisdom."

The bard sang, " _We drink to our youth, for the days come and gone._  
_For the age of aggression is just about done._  
_We'll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own._  
_With our blood and our steel we'll take back our home_."

Maren gave her adopted daughter a level look. "And _how_ , Runa, is it that I'm thinking?"

" _Down with Ulfric! The killer of kings!  
On the day of your death we will drink and we'll sing."_

Runa waved her hand, almost knocking over her tankard. "Well, from where I'm sitting, it sounds as if you think you should have sided with Ulfric instead. Driven the empire out of Skyrim. And then what: have them send their full force upon us and crush the whole province? Yeah, that would have sure been wise!"

" _But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean.  
Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams!"_

"That's not what I was saying," Maren said patiently.

"Yeah? So you don't think that Ulfric would've brought back our independence? Ulfric the Great, the noble savior of Skyrim, with nothing but the best interest of his people at heart?"

Maren snorted. "All Ulfric ever cared about was Ulfric," she said. "I was never under any illusion about that. I mean, the man kept repeating the story that a dragon had liberated him when the Stormcloaks leveled Helgen—to make it seem like everything was pointing toward his destiny as the leader of Skyrim. And he seemed to actually expect people to buy that! Clearly he was a man plagued by severe delusions of grandeur, and not someone to put your trust in. He would have brought nothing but chaos to this land."

" _We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives._  
And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies!"  
  
Runa picked up her drink. "Well, what are you complaining about then? You made the right choice."

" _We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.  
For the age of aggression is just about done." _

The bard strummed the last chords of the song, then went back to tuning his instrument. _  
_  
Maren sighed. She gave Ariela a somewhat resigned look, a strange expression on that proud countenance. "As you might guess, we've touched on the subject once or twice before."

Runa scowled. "And nothing has changed. I'm still right, and she's still wrong."

"I never said I had a fixed position in this," Maren said. "With age and experience, you'll learn that things seldom have clear-cut answers. They—"

"Please!" Runa cried, throwing up her hands. "No lectures."

The bard was about to break into a different song, but Maren politely asked him to continue playing instrumentally. He looked just a little disgruntled about this, but hid it very professionally.

Ariela wanted to keep the conversation on the subject; it wasn't often you got a take on a historical event from somebody who had actually been there—in the forefront, no less. "So," she said to Maren. "If you could change your course now, you wouldn't become Ulfric's follower instead?"

Maren slowly shook her head. "No," she said. "No, in fact, I've come to think that the absolute worst thing you can be in this world is a follower of any kind. Leaders cause the war, sure, but should no one crowd behind them in their madness, none of all the great suffering that they cause could ever take place."

"Don't you think that's a little simplistic?" Runa demanded. "With the same logic no big leaps of progress would ever take place, if people didn't come together to put in action the ideas thought out by someone else."

"The problem isn't so much good or bad ideas themselves, but the fact that people so often fail to discern between them, between a useful cause and a harmful one. They just take up the flag and arms when they come across someone convincing enough endowed with sufficient charisma. Then they follow them without questioning. They become as dogs, and a dog is only ever as good as its master."

_And a god only as good as its worshiper_ , Ariela thought.

"You're talking about Ulfric, right?" Runa said to Maren.

The woman shrugged. "Well, yes, him; but he's certainly not the only one. Because people actually trusted him, believed that he was who he said he was and would liberate the people, so many lives were needlessly wasted. Families broken. All those children left orphaned."

"And so you took care of him," Runa shrugged. "Problem solved."

"You can kill a man, sure," Maren said. "But killing what he represents is a completely different matter."

"But you yourself were just going on about how the problem is people following the wrong leader. If so, I think the answer is simple: eliminate the leading black sheep and the flock will disperse."

Runa took a drink, looking satisfied with her own capacity for effective problem-solving.

Maren did not look so convinced. "Killing a man is surprisingly easy, once you get over the initial aversion. A fact you yourself full well know." She aired a tired sigh. "It's an easy answer, yes. But there's not much value in those, I think."

Runa gave it a shrug. "I'm not so sure about that. I learned as a very young girl what can be gained with the death of just a single person."

Maren's long, sober regard was spiked with sadness. "And have you not likewise learned what can be lost?"

Runa returned the look, but said nothing. A moment passed between them, a heaviness Ariela could not interpreter, but which she nonetheless found vexing. The bard had taken a break from playing, and was having a drink.

Ariela cleared her throat, a hoarse sound feeling almost violent in the sudden silence. "So," she said. "I hear there's been talk of another civil war brewing. Runa didn't seem to think much of it, though."

Maren slowly switched her gaze from her daughter to Ariela. "There's always talk," she said. "It's been going around ever since Ulfric's death. Some people just can't let go. In fact, there are many who believe Ulfric never actually died; that his death was staged, and that he was taken as a prisoner. And that one day he will return to reorder the Stormcloaks, to deliver Skyrim from the Empire for once and for all." She grunted at the absurdity, then sipped her wine.

"So you don't seem to take it too seriously, either?"

"No, I don't. There is no one I see at the moment who could foment active resistance against the Empire. Not to mention that the Empire itself has been all but absent in people's lives, so they hardly give it any thought. They have even come to think of the High Queen as one of them, rather than an imperial puppet like some thought of her late husband."

"So the High Queen is well loved, then?"

"Hardly," Maren said with a snort. "The High Queen Elisif is known for her whims, and even cruel streaks. Majority of people think of her as a cold bitch." She smiled. "But she's _their_ cold bitch, and not just some imperial lapdog. And to give her due credit, she _has_ shown remarkable independent nature; much more, I'm sure, than the Empire ever could have guessed. Some say she's even wrapped her pinky around the Emperor himself."

"And then, of course, there's that bastard of his," Runa said.

"Rumored," Maren corrected, drawing a dismissive snort from Runa.

Ariela stirred. "What's this, and why have I not heard of it?"

"The High Queen's only son," Maren explained. "It's a consistent rumor that Elisif seduced the fresh Emperor when he was first visiting Skyrim, and that the boy was the end-result of that. There never has been any other father candidate."

"Whoa," Ariela said. "I have to repeat my question: why have I never heard of this before?"

"Simple," Maren said. "The Empire hasn't wanted you to. They've been rather successful at cutting the wings off that particular rumor. Anywhere outside Skyrim, that is. Around here it's pretty much public knowledge. It doesn't help that the Queen has kept secretive about the whole thing, and has never brought him under the public eye. It may be hard to believe, but not many outside of Blue Palace have ever even seen him, though varying descriptions run rampant. Most of them ridiculously exaggerated, of course."

"I hear he's a shape-shifter," Runa said, smirking. "And a notorious womanizer. From what I hear, I myself have bedded him several times over. Unknowingly, of course."

"I guess there's no way to know for sure," Ariela concluded. She addressed her words to Maren, not wanting to encourage Runa.

"I don't suppose there is, no," Maren agreed.

"But I assume you're convinced that Ulfric at least truly is dead?"

Maren gave a soft, amused grunt. "Well, I ought to be. Saw him die with my own eyes."

Ariela started. "You didn't . . ."

Maren shook her head. "No, not me. It was General Tullius to do him in. His honor, so to speak."

Ariela shook her head, in awe. "I can't begin to imagine how it must have been, being at the center of such considerable events. And you must have been so young!"

"Perhaps just a little older than you now."

"Were you afraid?"

"Afraid, no," Maren said, shaking her head. "Never afraid. That's always been a weakness of mine: that I never really knew how to feel fear."

Runa snorted. "Yeah, and we all know what a terrible weakness courage is in a person!"

Maren gave her a hard look. "Have you not learned anything?" she said, the tone of her voice genuinely cross. "The essence of courage is not doing something because you're not afraid, but doing it _despite_ the fear. How many times do I need to repeat this very basic lesson?"

Runa dismissed her mother with a wave of hand. "Semantics."

"So do _you_ not ever get afraid?" Ariela asked, addressing Runa.

Runa just stared back at her for a while. Then she huffed indignantly and stood up. "There's no use talking to you two," she said, then pointed a finger at Ariela. "I should have known you'd take _her_ side of it." She waved her hand, turning. "I'm off to see how Erik and the others are doing." Then she stormed out, but not before grabbing another bottle of ale to go with her.

Maren's impassive eyes followed Runa until she'd gotten out the door. She turned to Ariela. "Don't mind her. She's always been a little touchy."

Ariela waved the issue away. "I think I'm used to it by now." If anything, she was a bit jealous that Runa got to go spend time with Erik.

The two of them sat in silence for a while, nibbling on the honey-nut treats and sipping their drinks. The bard had stopped playing by now, and was sitting down eating his meal and conversing with the housekeeper in murmured tones. They seemed to have their own topics unrelated to the conversation at the other end of the table.

Looking to break the silence, which was threatening to grow into an awkward one, Ariela addressed Maren. "So, Runa said something about a sister earlier." She immediately regretted touching upon such a potentially sensitive subject.

Yet Maren barely blinked. "Yes, Lucia," she said. "I adopted her around the same time as Runa." When Ariela hesitated about asking the woman to elaborate, she went ahead. "She died. A sudden sickness, nothing to be done. There was something very frail about that girl; perhaps the climate here was not right for her constitution."

The way she spoke of it was almost as if the subject didn't move her at all. But then she took on a more melancholy aspect. "In any case, no remedy, spell, or blessing could heal her. So one night she just slipped away. I think Runa took it hard, though she never spoke of it. That's another way she's like me: she tends to keep things inside." Maren wore a smile, but one of profound sadness.

"So sorry to hear that," Ariela said, though the words rang hollow in her ears.

"It's alright," said Maren. "If I understand it correctly, at least some Altmer believe that our souls eventually return back to Nirn, once they've been wiped out of their memories, both good and bad. So maybe, in a way, she got another chance." She gave a little shrug. "Either that, or perhaps she's now in Aetherius. Maybe."

Ariela was, of course, knowledgeable in the matters of afterlife theories, but she did not know which of them, if any, she believed in. In regards to the latter, it seemed to her that Maren might have been the same way.

"Either way," the other woman continued. "It's not as if she or Runa were the only orphans to suffer during the war. Or after it. Still pains me to even think of it, to tell you the truth."

"Couldn't you have adopted more of them?" Ariela asked. She suppressed a cringe, as her own words came out accusatory. To mitigate the impression, she quickly elaborated, "Seems you could have provided them with a good life."

Maren smiled her pained smile. "No. For reasons I never really learned to understand, I could never bring myself to adopt more than the two children. Even after Lucia's death. I wanted to, but something stopped me. It doesn't make much sense, I must admit." She looked vacant for a while. "But I did use a lot of the fortune I gathered to fund the orphanage in Riften, and even helped to start a new one in Windhelm. I simply could not stand the idea of children forced to live in the streets, begging for their food. I've been working for a long time to have another one opened in Markarth, but it's been a frustratingly long process. But perhaps soon."

Ariela could probably not hide the admiration in her eyes as she regarded the older woman. It was simply such a rare pleasure to meet someone showing this sort of genuine kindness and compassion. Not to even speak of wisdom. And this was someone who had killed hundreds of people with the massive, scary sword? The incongruous equation was a tough one to reconcile.

As if having read Ariela's mind, Maren continued, "I know what you're thinking. But I'm no hero. I've made my share of mistakes, some worse than others. And I've always also had facets to myself that I can't even speak of. Lots of anger, hatred—bloodlust, even. I've just tried to do what I've could to correct some of my past mistakes. So please, don't look at me like I deserve praise and veneration. Because I really don't."

Ariela was finding it difficult to believe the woman, but didn't want to argue, either. So she simply nodded and then looked away.

After another moment of silence, Maren spoke again. "So," she said. "Big day tomorrow? Do you have an idea where you'll be heading?" Ariela shook her head, and Maren nodded. "Figured as much. Runa wouldn't tell me, either. Said she didn't want to think about it, and was going to talk about it come the morning. No doubt she'll have everyone over to give her proclamation. She always did have a way with the dramatic. When she was little, she dreamed of being a bard, or a theatrical performer."

" _Really_?" Ariela could not picture that.

"Believe it!" Maren said, smiling easier now. "When we lived in Solitude, she was often hanging around the Bards' College. She was quite a good singer, you know."

"Wow," Ariela said, whistling. "Never would have guessed. Suppose she had a change of heart, then."

"Not completely. She _did_ also always talk about becoming an assassin; but luckily I managed to talk her out of that one." Maren wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"A singing assassin," Ariela mused. "Now that would be something!"

Maren laughed. "Doubt that she'd have had much success!"

They chuckled for a while. The relief was welcome, even if the joke had been a weak one. Still, it was funny enough to lighten up the mood, and that was not a bad thing.

Not much was said after that. They chatted cordially for some time longer, pleasantly enough but not about anything of real importance. The bard continued to pluck his lute idly, but soon Maren dismissed him. He then went in the kitchen to join Ania, who for her part had excused herself so unobtrusively that Ariela did not even properly register it until some minutes later.

Her stomach now full to its limit, and with the effect of the small amount of mead wearing off, Ariela started to feel drowsy. She yawned so wide that her jaw hurt. Even though it couldn't have been that late yet, it was time to call it a day and get some sleep.

First, though, she really needed to use the privy. She got up, giving Maren her most profuse thanks, to the woman downplaying the whole thing. She also made sure to peek into the kitchen to thank the quiet but friendly Ania for the meal, though she also seemed to want to swat the whole issue away. It seemed humility was a common custom of the Nords, nearly to the point of competition.

It was dark out, and there was a crisp gust of wind. Ariela wrapped her tunic tighter and headed toward the outhouse at the edge of the woods. On her way, she caught the sight of Runa out of the corner of her eye. The woman was standing under a tree, her back to Ariela, head bowed as if in prayer. It seemed odd since she hardly gave out a terribly devout impression.

She approached the Nord cautiously, as though not to startle her. "Runa?" she said quietly, but the other woman didn't seem notice.

Ariela cleared her throat, continuing to walk until they were shoulder to shoulder. Then she saw what Runa was looking at. It was a small tombstone, a bit tilted, coated with a thin layer of lichen. In big, carved letters it said: "Lucia."

Runa did not remove her gaze from the stone. "It's not as if I ever really got to know her," she said quietly. "We lived together for only a short time, and she mostly kept to herself." She grunted softly. "Lucia was always a strange one. Many times, I awoke in the middle of the night to find her just standing next to her bed, staring at nothing."

Ariela once again didn't know what to say, so she just gently laid a hand on Runa's shoulder. To her slight surprise, Runa put her own hand on top of hers and looked her deep in the eye. She smiled, her gaze melancholy. "Sorry I snapped at you back there," she said. "I didn't really mean anything by it. Talking to my mother has a way of getting to me. I'm not used to her level of argumentation; usually it's me who makes folks look like yammering fools."

"I don't think you did too badly," Ariela said, and even meant it. She emphasized this with a smile.

"Thank you," Runa said. It sounded like she meant it as well. She patted Ariela's hand. "Think we better hit the sack, don't you think? Gonna be a big day tomorrow."

Ariela resisted an urge to ask. But if she started to worry about it now, she could say goodbye to sleep for the night. "Yes," she simply said.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Runa closed her arms around Ariela. It took the young scholar a few moments of recovering from the surprise enough to be able to return the hug.

"Well," said Runa, retreating after a dozen or so heartbeats. "Goodnight." She then turned to walk toward the warriors' lodgings.

"Good night," Ariela said quietly, watching the back of the retreating Nord. "And sleep well."

She resumed her walk to the privy, hoping she would be able to abide by her own bidding.

 


	35. The Two Thieves

Height vertigo was a most unheard-of phenomenon among Khajiit, but from the way the tiered, stone-bound Markarth seemed to swirl at her when gazing down at it, Shadya knew she'd spent too long among the people of civilization. Too long pretending to be one of them.

Not that she'd ever been a mountain cat, either.

Her paws gripped harder on the jagged edge of the escarpment as she drew herself onward, resolving not to look down before she'd reached the top. She bristled against the sopping mists that clung to the higher mountainside, fixed her gaze on the point on the cataract where the waters tipped down. Finally, she reached the even plain, and, catching her breath, looked back down at Dockside. The city, torches and braziers dappling its streets, was a harbor of light in the fold of darkness, the stars and the moons above throwing their celestial glow into the mix. Altogether, there was plenty of light for her to steer herself by in the misty gloom.

Cutting through the fog, Shadya hopped over the stream and followed its path toward the other brook, the one which fell beside the keep entrance. The riverbed had furrowed itself into the stone over thousands of years, with the patience of inanimate nature that ever eluded the comprehension of living beings. She already couldn't wait till she no longer had to look at it.

Eventually, she came to the point where the two streams forked, a wider stream reaching farther into the mountains, emerging from the suspended miasma of vapors that was swallowing the entire range beyond. She followed it, keeping an eye out for a point where the wide riverbed made a diverging path to her left. She felt certain there would be one. Had to be.

Yet, after minutes of walking she still had not stumbled onto one. Just the one unbroken, ever widening boulder-strewn riverbed rolling forth from the unknown obscure perpetuity.

_Come on, now. Come on!_

Dreadful doubt started gnawing at her when, after some more walking, the stream still insistently held to its uniformity. Looking back toward where she came from, fog now obscuring visibility that way as well, she tried judging the distance she'd come. She felt certain that she was well past the bounds of the keep now, though somehow having her vision restricted seemed to discombobulate her sense of time as well.

Chagrined, she was getting ready to just give in and turn back, when she spotted it. A little further upstream, the tiniest of cracks in the southern flank of the riverbed had grown into a tributary as wide as her arm was long. It ran on for about a dozen paces until seeming to vanish altogether. Encouraged, she smiled and increased her pace, slogging to where the tributary dove underground. She knelt beside it and peered into the narrow fissure through which the water disappeared. A hollow purl echoed in the darkness. The deep, constricted, _wet_ darkness . . .

Shadya sighed. _Once again, no turning back_. She shucked off her tattered-hemmed cloak, tucking it under a boulder lying by the stream. There was no way for her to get through the narrow furrow without having the cloth snag on its jagged walls. In place of her usual single strap knapsack, she was carrying a small leather messenger bag, which she kept slung over her shoulder. She would need that, unlike the cloak.

She stopped to stare into the gloom, seized by apprehension. Once she got in there, there was unlikely to be a chance to turn back. _So . . . head first, or feet?_ Should she get irredeemably stuck and die by drowning or starvation—whichever came first—would it be better to be caught head upwards or downwards? _Well, if you happened to be at a sharp enough angle, then head-down you might have the mercy of passing out before—_

_Stop that now!_ Thinking about it wasn't going to help, she decided. Electing to dive in head-first—which did seem the more logical choice—she went on her knees into the shallow water. A good dose of regurgitated skooma helped her tolerate the cold water, or rather to ignore it altogether. Suspending thought and reflection, Shadya begun inching her way forward in the dank tunnel.

Her mind clear of all but the task at hand, she experienced little difficulty at first. The wetness, the dark, the extreme limitation of movement, and of course the immense crushing feeling of being surrounded by masses of stone, tugged at the corner of her mind every once in a while. But she would not, _could_ not, allow for any of that to take root in her mind. She felt panic sitting at bay in the pit of her stomach, waiting for something to feed on—a doubt, a thought of the reality of her situation—to burgeon into full force. That would be the end of her. So none of that!

But after a while, she could not say how long, the tunnel begun to narrow further, and Shadya felt doubt starting to gnaw at her anew. Should the narrowing continue to the point where she could not continue crawling, the chances of her getting stuck became increasingly more likely. She'd been sloping down, and couldn't turn about, so would she still be able to back out?

And true enough, soon her elbows were scraping against the rock, and try as she might to compress herself further, her progress became painstakingly slow.

_You're gonna die here!_

Could not think about such nonsense now. She would get through this!

_Die!_

No way was she going to let her own mind get the best of her! No wa—

_Diediediediediedieidie—_

"Quiet! For the love of Azurah, SHUT UP!" Her scream sounded oddly hallow in the constricted space.

Shadya stopped dead. Did she just have to _yell_ at her own mind?

_Time to calm down._

She closed her eyes and breathed deep. And waited.

Suddenly everything was tranquil. It had worked! It was just her, stuck in this miserable, wet and cold, dark tunnel. And there was no way out but forward. Dead simple.

She opened her eyes, set her jaw, and continued.

Slowly, she inched on, ignoring the little scrapes and nicks. And, true enough, after who knew how long a time of laborious creeping, the passage started to gradually widen. Encouraged, she pushed on. After another while, a small flicker of light started showing at the end. She thought she imagined it at first, but as she progressed, it became increasingly clear. At the same time, the channel continued to widen. By the time it was large enough for her to proceed on her knees, the light was bright enough to hurt her sensitized eyes.

Shadya finally came to the end of the tunnel, nearly tall enough for her to stand. She smiled, as the way opened up to a familiar sight. The Jarl's bedchambers. She had been right! The water flowed down to the natural pool located at the end of the room, just under her feet. Apart from the murmur of water, the chambers were silent. The steady hiss of breathing carried from the direction of the bed dais, the Jarl's sleeping form evident as lumps in the bedding. The quietly sizzling hearth—someone must have been charged to stoke the fires while the Jarl herself slept—together with a single guttering candle sitting on a dresser top served to light the room. It was plenty for Shadya to work with; and, in fact, after the long minutes spent in the dark, she had to squint against what felt like an assault on her eyes.

She noiselessly descended down the ledge, hopping onto the dry floor by the pool. Finally out of the water, she shook herself from head to toe to dry herself to the best of her ability. She considered rummaging through Faleen's wardrobe for a towel, but decided against it as there was precious little time to squander. At least the skooma helped against the cold.

The hearth's warmth caressed her beckoningly as she passed it. There was a flicker of temptation to linger a little while to warm up, but Shadya squelched the notion in its infancy. She inched toward the door, her wet paws leaving a wet track behind her, yet making no noise detectable by human ears. She pushed the door cautiously. Unlocked. Peering through the crack, she picked up the sight of a furry shape lying on the floor a rock's throw from the doorway. Only one of them.

Retreating again, she dug into her little pouch, producing one of the two vials there. With the exorbitant prices that the alchemist had been demanding, she had judged two to suffice for her needs. Merard had inadvertently given her the idea earlier, and despite her feelings about magic, Shadya had known that this would be her best bet. That did not mean she had to like it, though.

Disregarding her healthy sense of apprehension, she unstoppered the vial and gulped down the oddly saccharine concoction. Was she supposed to wait for it to kick in?

No time.

She pushed past the crack of the door and studied the sleeping dog. She recognized it as the same one that had been barking at her earlier. The bitch was still, breathing slow and heavy. Shadya went in her bag again to bring out a bitesize wedge of dried, alchemically treated meat. She tossed it, and it landed in front of the dog's muzzle. The beast stirred.

_Come on, now!_ she thought, when the animal awoke to stare at the treat, as though not quite knowing what the make of it. It gave the meat a cautious sniff. _What are you, a vegetarian? Just eat the damned thing!_

Then, finally, the dog inhaled the piece, and afterwards sniffed avidly at the floor about itself in search for more. Shadya smiled in triumph, beginning to slowly walk toward the creature. The canine stood up, cocking its head in her direction. It looked right through her, yet appearing to be trying to perceive something there. Then its front legs buckled, as it suddenly seemed to be struggling for balance. Another second later, it faltered, then laid back down. With a small whimper, the dog rested its head over its paws and closed its eyes. Next moment it was sleeping again. Not about to wake up anytime soon.

_One down_. Shadya peered around the corner in search of the other pooch. The dog was exactly where she'd last seen it, by the brazier, as if never having moved. She considered for a while whether she actually even needed to employ the other piece in her bag, but decided to play it safe. The other piece of meat described a smooth arc through the air, but instead of landing where she had meant it, in front of the dog's slumbering muzzle, it landed right on its rhinarium, the moist tip of its nose.

The dog jolted, and was on its feet almost before it was awake. It looked around frantically, the treat unnoticed off to one side. Shadya muttered a curse. _Just look down—it's right there!_ The animal sniffed the air, but missed what was right next its stupid paws. And these dumb creatures were supposed to be ones equipped with a superior sense of smell!

Then the dog went rigid. With its head held stiff, ears pricked, and hackles raised, the animal fixed its eyes straight in Shadya's direction. It began to growl.

_Aw, shit_. At the very same instant the dog dashed at her, barking and snarling feverishly. She sprang onto a table on her right, then jumped against the heavy pillar beside it, clung to the stone with her claws and clambered onto its flat apex. The dog's claws skittered on the flagstone as it scrambled to a halt. It continued to bark, head tilted up and eyes searching for Shadya. Perching on the pillar, she just barely kept herself from hissing.

"What _now_!" The man from earlier—Shadya couldn't recall his name—stormed from the kitchens. "Gaston!" he cried. "Not you too! What the heck is the matter with you dumb bastards; are you really that eager to wind up in a stew pot?"

The dog threw the man a quick, embarrassed gaze but couldn't keep itself from growling up at Shadya.

"What are you seeing there, boy? A Skeever?" the man asked, coming by the animal. He squinted up the pillar, and Shadya felt her heart lurch. She went as motionless as she could muster. For a second, he looked right at her and frowned, and she was convinced that he'd spotted her.

"There's nothing there!" the man finally growled. The dog wasn't convinced and barked its objection. He grabbed it by the scruff of its neck, and it made a pathetic yelp. "Shut it now, or I'll go start the water boiling myself!"

Profound relief set in and allowed for Shadya to once again draw breath. Although, despite the detestation she felt toward the beast, she couldn't help feeling pity for the abused dog. After all, it had done its job exceedingly well. But she could live with a bit of pity weighing her heart, she decided, as she slunk through a portal in the stone behind her. The jumble of wide brass pipes that ran along the ceiling would do to serve as aerial duckboards, safely out of the line of sight. Better safe than sorry, even with the livid man now keeping a rein on his beasts.

She heard him rumble, "Now, what's the matter with _her_?" Talking about the second dog. "Earlier, she was the one barking at a guard like a maniac, and now I can't get her to rouse! I'm starting to think Faleen's on to something."

Leaving the man to his rage and the canines to their uncertain fates, Shadya moved on. She bounded from one pipe to another, head ducked low so as to not hit the ceiling, and then careful not to burn herself with the hot steam puffing out at a junction point. Looking down, she saw that the course was clear. She scuttled the last length of pipe to arrive by the doorway leading out toward the exit. Then she leaped onto the wall and climbed down, continuing on tiptoes toward the entrance.

She impulsively pawed at her small pouch. The only piece of fabric on her.

It felt strange, to say the least, to be walking around in nothing but her fur. Even odder was to think that the invisibility potion worked not only for the person ingesting it, but for their clothes as well, plus anything else they carried on their persons. But, as regards to the latter, someone had once explained to her that invisibility-causing magic—whether it be by spell or by potion—didn't actually so much turn you invisible as it caused people simply not to see you. Instead of altering your physicality, it affected the way it registered with people's minds. So in its way the magic caused them to simply ignore you, manipulating their natural impulse to disregard and turn a blind eye to what was right under their noses. And this, it would seem, applied to anything you carried in your person as well. It was like being surrounded by a big bubble of ignorance.

Apparently, though, it was still possible to catch glimpses of someone under such a spell, if only in the corner of your eye. Also, if such a person performed a conspicuous action near you, the effect would be disrupted, as you would now have a good reason to think that they actually were there. This was why the man looking right at her had so unsettled Shadya.

Another thing, obviously, was that the potion would only work for a limited time. Thirty minutes, the alchemist had said. Shadya took such promises with a grain of salt. Still, efficient as she was, she had calculated that two vials should suffice for her needs. One for in, one for out.

_Because that's how reality always works out!_

Ignoring her inner naysayer, she sneaked past the guards. Or was going to, at any rate, when one of them abruptly sneezed just as she was passing. Luckily, her inadvertent yelp was drowned out by the blaring eruption. Another one of those soon followed, and a third. Then a forth. She simply stood there watching, dumbfounded, as the guard did not seem to be able to stop.

_Oh._ Remembering herself, Shadya quickly moved away, continuing up the ramp to the left and toward the Dwemer museum. She was already a bit behind her schedule and simply had no time to spare. The trickiest part still lay ahead.

"Are you alright?" said the other guard, as the sneezing one finally seemed to recover.

"I'm okay," the other replied. "Just, my nose suddenly got all itchy."

Shadya was just about to ignore what was going on behind her, focusing instead on how she planned to deal with the guard at the museum entrance, when she heard the main door opening. By instinct, she turned to look behind, only to see a familiar figure stroll in.

The Breton had once more donned the nobleman's garb, and walked with his nose in a ridiculously exaggerated tilt. Without sparing the guards a single glance, he strutted to the opposite direction from Shadya, toward the Dwemer excavation site. The guard who'd had the sneezing fit looked like he was about the address this so-called noble, but the other one halted him with a shake of his head. The first guard's posture bespoke bemusement, but he soon shrugged it off.

Shadya, by contrast, was seized by apprehension most severe. _So, he's back. Am I or am I not going to try to find out what it is that he's after?_ Sadly, she knew herself way too well to not have a question ready at hand. _But . . . my plan . . ._

_Let's face it, it was a shoddy plan to begin with._

Sighing, she gave a little nod. Then she sprang after the cock-of-the walk, pseudo-highborn fellow thief, Merard.

* * *

Trepidation was a virtually unheard of guest within the mind of Merard Motierre, but there it was, tickling at the back of his head as he walked toward the Dwemer excavation base for his rendezvous with the Court Wizard Calcelmo. And why did it feel as if he were being followed?

_You're crack-_ ing _, sonny-boy_! sang the voice in his head.

_You're not helping any._

Chuckles.

He sighed. Not much longer now. He would need to keep together long enough to do this. Perhaps he'd need to take a little break before making the final move against the Nightingale?

_No time!_

Calcelmo was where he had left him, as if never having moved. This time the object on the arcane enchanter in front of the tall Altmer was a big, red jewel.

Merard's heart skipped a beat.

No. But a regular ruby, this one, if likely a fantastically valuable one at that. It meant nothing to him.

"Calcelmo." He winced at the manner in which the name passed his lips. For one, he'd let his accent slip, but even worse was the note of contempt that his voice carried. From what depth now arose this unbeckoned emotion?

Calcelmo glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, you've returned. Splendid." His withered, yet strangely timeless, features were utterly stripped of any emotion, as was his inflectionless voice. "Give me just a second, and we'll take a tour."

"Ah," breathed Merard, a touch hyperbolic, "you are granting me a privilege of untold magnitude!" His accent was back with a vengeance.

Calcelmo eyed him impassively. "Yes," he intoned. "I imagine I am. Now, just one minute."

Merard fanned out his arms. "I've got all the time in the world, my friend!" _Every_ _second you piss away, you miserable old goblin, is another one keeping me from my vengeance! But it can only postpone the inevitable._

Finally, the Altmer scholar pulled away from the enchanter, offering Merard something like a smile. The Breton immediately hoped to never have to see that again. "Finally. Shall we?" Without waiting for a reply, he waved a guard along and started to walk toward the entrance to the excavation site. Merard followed.

Staring at Calcelmo's back, he felt the obsequious simper on his face take a sharper turn, knowing his eyes no longer contained any cordiality. "You will not regret this," he said, his voice hardly more than a mutter.

He meant every word.

* * *

A cold feeling settled into Shadya's stomach when she realized where the Court Wizard Calcelmo was taking Merard. Right into the maw of that Dwemer horror. Deeper underground, almost certainly.

She froze in her tracks and had to put her resolve into some serious question. Whatever it was that the man was looking for here, it could not possibly have been that important. She should turn back now, and focus instead on the jewel. She should. She really, _really_ should.

_As if!_

She finally sprang into motion, as Merard entered the castle's huge double doors. Calcelmo entered last, and turned to close the doors. Shadya managed to slip between them before they banged shut, just barely managing to dive under the wizard's arms instead of running into him. A frown flashed across Calcelmo waxy features, and the Altmer stood there for a second, as though perplexed. Shadya dared not move.

Just as soon, however, he gave his head a soft shake, spun, and carried on walking as if nothing out of ordinary. Shadya waited in place for a while, letting the procession get moving. The guard went first, Calcelmo second. Merard, before following, took one more look toward the door.

Straight, it seemed, at Shadya.

For what felt like the umpteenth time, her breath got caught in her throat. She felt as though nailed in place by that intense gaze. How was he able to see her?

Yet nothing changed on the man's countenance. And, before she knew it, he swung round as well to follow Calcelmo and the guard.

Shadya was too tense to move at first, struggling to regain her breath. Yet again. But she couldn't afford to be waiting around. So she quickly reached for another gush of Skooma, then sprang after them.

* * *

The ghosts of long-gone Dwemer glory still seemed to hold the rubble-strewn hallways of the castle in their tenacious embrace. The thousands of years gone by hadn't sufficed to quite rub out the stench of their madness from the stone, which seemed intent on retaining it until the end of time. It made Merard sick to his stomach.

"Tell me," Calcelmo suddenly said over his shoulder, "what do you know of the Nchuand-Zel?"

Merard smiled. _Testing me, are you?_ "Precious little," he admitted. He met the High Elf's curious eye levelly. "Just like everyone else." Essentially, it was a giant underground cavern hosting a Dwemer ruin.

Calcelmo continued to eye Merard a moment longer while continuing to stride across the hallway. With a nod, he then looked ahead. "Aye."

"Though, I imagine you've unearthed more about it during your most recent years of studies. Groundbreaking insights yet to be revealed in forthcoming treatises!"

"Aye," Calcelmo muttered. "Perhaps."

"Dare I hope, perchance, that I will learn something today that the world at large is yet to hear about? A little tidbit of your latest discoveries, maybe?"

"I'm afraid there's little conclusive to reveal." Calcelmo sighed. "The Nchuand-Zel yet remains a true mystery. Much like the Dwarves themselves."

_Dwarves_. This from a man who had made it clear he only ever used the word as a concession to the unlearned. Was he trying to bait Merard?

If so, then he was wasting his efforts. "Ah, yes. I can hardly imagine the vastness of the work you've taken upon your shoulders! The singular breadth of the undertaking! And to my knowledge you've done it all without help!" Truth be told, there was little need for the overblown toadying anymore, but somehow he found himself being entertained by the performance.

Calcelmo grunted. "Without help? In the ruins, sure. I am the only one permitted here, save for the guards of course. And an odd visitor, whom, I assure you, are rare. Not many take interest in the mystery of the Dwemer. To, I fear, their detriment … in the long run." He sighed again after a stretch of gloomy silence. "Anyway, I used to have help in the laboratory. My nephew, Aicantar. He was eager, if scarcely competent."

"He quit?"

"Died. Wrong place, wrong time. Got caught in the middle of a Forsworn raid, and they killed him." He said this with all the emotion as if they'd tracked a bit of dirt on his sixth-favorite rug.

"Ah, so sorry to hear this!"

"Hmm," said Calcelmo.

Along with lanterns set here and there, buzzing mechanical lamps left by the place's erstwhile masters still shed their eerie synthetic light upon the ruins' disrepair. Sharp shafts of light from chandeliers cut through the miasmic dust, forming ethereal columns into the gloom.

They came to a large hallway with stairs rising in all directions, all of them blocked by rubble save for the one to their left. Calcelmo turned to it, starting to ascend the steps in his unhurried ancient man's pace.

"So," Merard said. "I imagine you get to conduct your studies in peace?"

"Much of the time. Been fortunate enough to have little trouble over the past years. We did have a bit of a . . . _pest_ problem a few years ago that halted my work for some time, but I had someone solve it. Since, we've had on-and-off sort of trouble with the more pervasive pest." His voice grew darker. "I'm speaking, of course, of the Falmer." He spat the name out like a dirty word.

Through the layers of detachment between himself and the Court Wizard, Merard felt a flash of genuine emotion. The Falmer was a subject matter that had greatly fascinated him as a child, back when innocence had still had a place in his heart.

So then, as he echoed the word " _Falmer!_ " back at Calcelmo, the zeal in his voice was only partly feigned. "Have they plagued the excavation site?"

"Less of late. And yet, the chance of them reappearing is ever hovering above my head. Not that they don't greatly interest me, but nevertheless . . ."

"Yes. Your work deciphering their language—"

"Is beyond compare, I know. And yet, can we truly blame the scholarly community for not tackling the issue before me? Well, _I_ can, of course, but nonetheless . . . Can one gaze upon the hideous aspect of a Falmer and suppose there is a mind behind it? Despite the work of the likes of Ursa Uthrax, who could believe there's anything left of the Snow Elves in them? To think: that the disfigured, grotesque beings we see today were once a noble race, one seeking Enlightenment!"

Next to nothing was known of the Snow Elves. According to Utrax's account, their losing war against the ancient Nords had forced them to seek refuge with the Dwemer, who had provided them with a shelter in the subterranean dwelling. But this came at a terrible price. The Dwemer apparently forced the Snow Elves to ingest toxic fungi, which rendered the latter blind. The soon rendered powerless race then slowly succumbed to servitude, then to slavery. It was only generations later that they had finally revolted, retreating deeper underground. This started a long, raging war between the two races, spanning over generations of the blissfully ignorant Nords above them.

Then, finally, one day when the people now called Falmer were preparing for one more engagement with the foes, they found their enemy disappeared.

Despite suddenly devoid of a familiar enemy, after decades of hatred and bloodshed it was now all the disfigured, once proud people knew. And so they would come to continue their brutal, hate-filled existence, taking their wrath out on the people living above ground. Ever since, they had been a feared, if scarcely believed-in, mystery residing under Skyrim's rocky surface, lurking in the abandoned Dwemer dwellings, as if still possessed by their once-masters. In addition to the Dwemer automatons protecting the ruins, the Falmer were the other reason why a sensible person would not go near the places.

"At any rate," Merard muttered. "Nasty creatures."

The Court Wizard eyed him from underneath the rim of his cowl. The sudden gravity of his comportment seemed to swell the silence around them. "Have you ever felt the hatred of the Falmer?" he rasped.

"Actually, I have never seen one."

"Aye," Calcelmo said. "Well, I have. Many of them, over the years. And I have felt it. And let me tell you, it's a frightening thing. Had they only the means to return to the surface and unleash it . . . ." He finished his sentence with a silent, grave shake of his head.

"Seems unlikely—"

"If one could only tally all the instances," Calcelmo cut in, "when _unlikely_ has suddenly become _possible_ . . . and _inevitable_ the next moment—well, needless to say that even I can only wish I were capable of such a feat. So I'd be mindful of throwing such assessments about." After a silence, he aired a deep sigh. "And then we have the odd account telling of signs that the Dwemer automatons seemed to have stopped hunting the Falmer." He paused. "Little credence to those, I admit. Still . . . the prospect, and its ramifications, are chilling."

As Calcelmo fell into silence, Merard hesitated. Something the gloomy Altmer had said earlier had sparked a resonance in him.

Enlightenment. The Light . . .

He chose to voice his thoughts. "You spoke of enlightenment."

They entered an excavated cavern, around the walls of which the original Dwemer stonework was still partly visible. Lower down, the walls had been reinforced with timber to forestall cave-ins. To the right, a packed-earth ramp wound down along the wall.

"Aye," Calcelmo replied absently.

"And what is Enlightenment, exactly?"

Calcelmo came to halt at the top of the ramp, turning to regard Merard. "Imagine yourself in a dark room. Now someone lights up a lamp. That's Enlightenment."

Merard felt himself grow tense. "And what does one _see_ , once one moves from the darkness and into the light?"

Calcelmo studied him a moment longer, then grunted. "I don't know. Haven't seen it, have I? You think I'd be standing here talking to you if I had?" With a shake of his head, the Court Wizard started descending. "In any case," he continued after a spell, "the Falmer aren't looking for the light anymore." He let out an odd, hollow sound that might have been a laugh devoid of humor. "I've always thought it a sign of a cruel sense of irony on the part of the Dwemer that they should have blinded them."

"No strangers to cruelty, the Dwarves."

"As is the case with all highly advanced peoples," replied Calcelmo. "Advances in the cultural, spiritual sense are contingent upon territorial advances. That is to say, conquest. Invasion, annihilation, subjugation. Genocide, slavery." Over his shoulder, he gave a Merard a darkly entertained regard. "Do you imagine the Falmer the only or the first to be enslaved by the Dwemer?" He gestured about them. "Or do you perhaps imagine that the great, genial Deep Elves raised these walls with the strength of their own arms?" There was more than a touch of amusement in his voice. "I think not. Vast though the extent of Dwemer knowledge might have been, the technologies that built their halls were muscles and whips."

It sounded as though Calcelmo, always so wary of certainties regarding the Dwemer in his writings, had adopted a more assertive stance as of late. Merard, however, decided it not worth the while to bring this up with him. Better stick to playing naïve. "But they are gone," he said. "And there is no more slavery in Tamriel."

"Such are the times," Calcelmo conceded. "For now."

"You don't believe the era of freedom to be long-lasting?"

"Freedom," Calcelmo grunted instead of answering. "What is that? For most, to be delivered from the slavery of others and into the slavery of their own desires suffices as freedom enough."

"You don't think that's a tad bit cynical?"

_And who or what, I wonder, speaks through you now?_

Calcelmo's reply was but to glare at him.

_Alright, then_ . . . "In any case," Merard went on, steering the conversation back into safer waters in order to not alienate the old Altmer. "Slaves or no slaves, surely no one can deny the singular nature of Dwemer's advances in technology."

"That much is self-evident."

"And it still works after the millennia—truly amazing!"

Calcelmo said nothing.

"Do you imagine," Merard persisted, "that it might one day be possible to learn enough of it to harness it to the use of people living today?"

"Needless to say," Calcelmo said warily, "that the power that sort of technology would yield its inheritor would be without comparison."

"But do you think it possible?"

"I imagine it would be possible," Calcelmo finally admitted. "But then imagination always runs farther than where satisfaction can reach."

"Meaning?"

"Look at what happened to the Dwemer themselves. The power they wielded resulted in but a growing hunger for more. And with that power, and with that hunger, their arrogance grew as well. And this, finally, led them to cause their own demise. Truly, is that not the very most basic lesson that history ever screams at us?"

Once again, this was a very different Calcelmo from his literary self. Had he made some recent breakthrough he chose to remain mum about?

"No one knows—"

"Precisely! No one knows what truly happened to them. And they most certainly had no inkling of what would happen when they set out to manipulate the Heart of Lorkhan. Did that stop them? How regretfully rare it is for the limitations of our knowledge to impose according limitations on our actions!"

According to an Aldmeri legend, as the gods, furious at Nirn's deceitful creation, tore limb from limb the god Lorkhan who had been behind it, his heart had landed on the young world's surface, and the volcano Red Mountain in Morrowind rose in the place where it hit. In the first Era, during their excavations under the mountain, the Dwemer had then supposedly discovered the heart. The High Engineer Kagrenac, undoubtedly the greatest magecrafter history ever saw, had then crafted special tools for manipulating the heart in his search for immortality for his people. What it had resulted in was their complete disappearance. Although, as the Calcelmo of his books would have been quick to point out, there remained absolutely no conclusive evidence about the true fate of the Dwemer. But Merard figured that they weren't simply speaking of the Dwarves here.

"Yes," Calcelmo mused. "I'm afraid that we mostly learn from history only what we need in order to repeat it."

From the foot of the ramp, the excavation turned increasingly cave-like, a narrower passage twisting and turning onwards.

"A grim assessment," Merard said. "But there's little sense in denying that some things have seen improvement over the centuries. Might there not yet be hope for a brighter future?"

"Hope?" Calcelmo grunted. "Hope seems to be an ongoing battle, yes . . . And a perpetually losing one at that."

"And yet we persist."

_Who is this 'we'?_

Calcelmo nodded. "We have little choice. We all of us do but what we must. It cannot be otherwise." He stopped, regarding Merard. "Much like beasts. They do but what nature dictates for them to do. Or consider the Dwemer automatons, conditioned long ago to carry on and on their interminable duty of guarding these dead places. Are we truly different from them? Are we endowed with some freedom that greatly sets us apart from them? Our souls, perhaps?" Without waiting for reply, he walked on. "I think not."

_Cheerful bastard, ain't he just?_ "You don't believe we possess souls?" There was a notion that Merard, based on all he knew, found to be patently absurd.

"I think," Calcelmo replied after a moment, "it may be that our souls possess us."

Before he knew it, Merard's lips were moving. " _Of the_ _two kinds of ghosts that haunt us, the ones outside are but a pale imitation of those we bear within_."

Calcelmo eyed him inquiringly. "Hmm?"

"Oh, nothing," Merard said, berating himself for his lack of control. "Just something someone said to me once." Alabistair Adrognese. He had been a bottomless wellspring for little aphorisms.

"Aye," said Calcelmo, uninterested. "Regardless. Even the Dwemer, I believe, had little choice in the direction in which their own minds led their path. It was their nature to dig deeper, and so deeper they dug. When this led to the discovery of the Heart, there was little choice once more. It was in their nature to seek what power was inherent in it. And, I might add, their enemies, the Chimer, had little choice but to do their best to counter them. To a moderate success, as we well know." He paused. "If we can truly call it that."

It seemed now as thought the Court Wizard had more or less adopted the popularized account of the events. Or was he again trying to lead Merard on?

In any case, according to the story, the Dwemer's dangerous ambitions ignited a war between the Dwemer and the race called Chimer, with whom they'd already had a troubled history. The Battle of Red Mountain, the second one in written history going by that name, was to be the final clash fought between the two races. In fact, as it later turned out, it would be the final battle for those races in general. Indoril Nerevar, a Chimer hero, led his four generals and an army of his people to attack the Dwemer in their fortress located under the Red Mountain, proving victorious. But, after the Dwemer defeat, the High Engineer Kagrenac went on to use his tools on the heart anyway. Completely unexpectedly, this led into his entire race vanishing into thin air. Even those of them who hadn't been anywhere near the Heart.

Calcelmo, on the other hand, had in his books pointed out that there was no evidence of the event taking place as such, and indeed there was no proof whether the disappearance of the Dwemer happened suddenly or gradually.

But in any case, their disappearing wasn't all that happened. In the aftermath, once Nerevar had confiscated both the Heart and the tools, things went badly south for him as well. First, one of his generals, Dagoth Ur, lost his mind and tried to claim the artifacts for himself. Then, after Dagoth Ur was defeated and banished, the remaining three generals murdered Nerevar as he was performing a ritual in order to ask for the Daedra Lord Azura's guidance. As the result, Azura cursed the entire race of the Chimer, turning their skins dark and their eyes glowing red, thus giving birth to the Dunmer today.

No doubt Calcelmo would call such a sequence of events inevitable.

But, as the Calcelmo of his writings might have pointed out, who was truly to say that the account passed down to us today had it right? What evidence was there? On what authority—

_None of this was matters right now!_

_Fine!_ Merard forced ebullience into his voice. "I take it that you've unearthed no aedric bodily organs of fantastic power during your excavations!"

If Calcelmo was amused, there was little of that on his countenance. "'Bodily', you say," he grunted. "Yes. Quite the stretch of imagination."

"Pardon?"

"Your mistake is common enough, but a mistake nonetheless. But I can hardly hold it against you to retain misguided modes of thought that have indeed been shared by some of our most esteemed scholars."

"I'm sorry, I still don't quite—"

"Should we really think that gods possess physical organs that we can see and touch? The same as ours, just . . . _larger_?" Calcelmo's tone of voice was positively offended. "Consider as well the rumors that the local school of mages briefly held in their possession an ancient and mythical artifact called the _Eye of Magnus_. A giant, spherical and vaguely eye-like object. Now, are we to assume that it was the _actual_ eye of the god Magnus?" He actually came as close to laughing as Merard imagined it was possible. "I'm sorry, but I choose to retain a measure of skepticism."

Merard nodded, though the wizard could not see it. This was more like the Calcelmo he'd encountered. "A sceptic," he said. "In that you are a follower of the Dwemer, one might say."

Calcelmo snorted.

"You disagree? The Dwemer, to my knowledge, eschewed all forms of worship. Part of the reason behind their feud with the Chimer, I believe?"

"As you say," Calcelmo said. "Most deem the Dwemer irreligious, scorn as they seemed the worship of deities. But I think that might be an underestimation. See, if what little we profess to know about them is any indication, I think it may be that what they worshiped was knowledge, and the power inherent in it. The ability that knowledge brings to control aspects of reality. Essentially, this translates as magic and technology. Now, is that not a kind of low level divinity on its own right? To partake in the shaping of things, in altering the creation? And recall what Lord Kagrenac supposedly used the power gleamed from the Heart of Lorkhan for. For building the Numidium, that's what. A mechanical monstrosity designed to serve as what—a new god for his people? Granted, it ended up serving only as a tool for Tiber Septim—the great _Talos_ that the Nords of our days so love to worship—to forge his empire with. And now _he_ is considered to be a god! In all honesty, I'm not quite sure if that's irony or what.

"But, in any case, the Dwemer were hardly without religiosity of some variety or another. They were, I daresay, as plagued by the issue of divinity as all people before and after them. Might we be able to say they worshiped knowledge itself as God? Or did their ambitions exceed all that has been said about them? What was the true purpose of meddling with the Heart? Did they truly fail? Now, I . . . like to at least _entertain_ the possibility . . . that they did not. Perhaps they succeeded far better that anyone knows. Perhaps this is what their disappearance truly meant. Not failure. Success beyond imagination . . ."

The old fool was starting to sound akin to possessed, and Merard could not stifle the sparks of curiosity.

Just as well, it went perfectly with his façade. "By all means, tell me more?"

Calcelmo paused, studying him. "You are familiar with the concept of apotheosis?"

"Of course," Merard said. Becoming, or making oneself, a god. Many in history had obviously pursued this ardently, but how many had achieved it? Mannimarco—the King of Worms, the Altmer mystic turned necromancer extraordinaire—was supposed to have turned himself into one—the _God_ _of Worms_ —in one of the branching realities born of the so-called Warp in the West, the latest known Dragon Break. These breaks were said to be rare events in which time was split into separate but simultaneous alternative timelines. The Dragon Breaks also supposedly created temporary conditions for mortals to use to reach godhood . . . _somehow_ . . . but if he was perfectly honest, this was the sort of stuff that had always had Merard falling asleep during Adrognese's lectures—earning him yet another beating.

In any case, Mannimarco was not the only one who supposedly had succeeded. After Nerevar's death, his three remaining ex-generals, subsequently referred to as The Tribunal, had provably achieved divinity when they themselves went on to manipulate the Heart of Lorkhan. As living gods, they had ruled the Dunmer for centuries. This lasted until the end part of the Third Era, when Nerevar was supposed to have been reborn and severed the Heart's powers from the mortal plane, thus robbing the remaining Tribunals of their divinity. If this had truly happened, the fellow, for all intents and purposes, might have been alive still today. And yet, no god, him.

"Well, then," Calcelmo said. "I do not think that I need to explain myself any further. Besides . . ." He shrugged. "It's only a bit of idle speculation I like to indulge in every now and then."

Merard stared at the back of the Court Wizard's head, half expecting for him to continue. Calcelmo, however, remained silent.

* * *

Shadya was starting to get edgy. She'd been trailing the two men proceeding at their leisurely pace deeper into the guts of this Dwemer hellhole, keeping some dozen paces between them and herself. And that was all fine and good. The men were talking. Wise things. Two smart fellas, well spoken, interesting to listen to. No problem there whatsoever.

But the thing was that the effect of her fucking invisibility potion was starting to wear out—it had _not_ lasted for half an hour!—and she'd had to take the fucking second one, and now that one was fucking starting to lose its fucking effect as well!

That, and only that, was the rub.

_I'll kill you! I swear I'm gonna kill you both! I'll take what's left of the effect to sneak up on you and tear your gods-damned fucking throats out! Indulge in a fucking idle speculation on the meaning of_ that _in the fucking_ Void _!_

The rational part of her knew all too well that she needed to calm herself down, lest this was all going to go real wrong real soon. Unfortunately, though, that rational part was badly shorthanded, as the rest of her had divided itself into a pack of raging dogs surrounding that sniveling little shit of Reason, teeth bared and baying so that froth splattered all over its craven little face.

_No, seriously, you have to calm down now! Too much hinges on you keeping it together!_

Eight thousand gold. _Eight thousand gold_! Her sure-fire one-way ticket out of this frigid dump. Out of Skyrim. For good.

That prospect was incentive enough. It would avail her nothing to fall apart now. It wouldn't even pay to kill those two prattling bastards, aside from the sheer satisfaction of it. But not worthy of losing sight of her prize. Of her future.

She could do this. She would make Gazalem Nightvale—or whatever the Oblivion his name was—proud. More importantly, she would make him pay.

With willpower, and with Skooma, Shadya pressed on. The sickeningly narrow cave, buried sickeningly deep under sickeningly dead stone would not forestall her, badly as it was testing her mettle. This was no place for a cat, but she would overcome that part of her if she had to. If only for as long as it took. Keeping further distance, as her invisibility was coming to its head— _What will I do then?_ _Thought for another tim_ e _!_ —she followed on.

* * *

"It's funny," Calcelmo said. "For as long as I have worked as a historian, there is one thing that still strikes me after these centuries."

They stood at the entrance of another large cavern, studying the columned platform which held the entrance to Nchuand-Zel proper.

"And what might that be?"

"That despite their remarkable qualities and the daunting historical weight of their legacies, on the individual level, all these great long-gone civilizations we are so in awe of, be they the Dwemer or the Akaviri or even the Snow Elves, they consisted of minds such as ours. In all likeliness, they thought more or less as we think, felt as we feel. They were plagued by the same doubts, same fears. Shared our ambitions and apprehensions. Felt joy, hatred. Envy. Greed. Desire—"

"Love."

Calcelmo glanced at Merard. "Love?" It was as though that particular concept was foreign to him.

' _Love', is it now?_

Merard shrugged. "It's universal, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Calcelmo said after a moment. "Sure. Sure." Then added in a mutter, "as much as infanticide."

To change topics, Merard said, "Greed we can at least agree on. Speaking of which, do the excavations yield much in the way of treasure?"

"Occasionally," Calcelmo mused. "As you might imagine, though, it's a different treasure that I value as opposed to most people. But then it does help with the funding to produce a gem every now and then for the less keen of mind to covet. One detail is shared by both knowledge and the more base objects of value, and that is that antiquity breeds worth."

"Ah, the Jarl appreciates the shiny things you send her way?"

Calcelmo snorted. "Hardly. In fact, that was never the case with her. Faleen remains . . . a soldier. She cannot help it, you see. Even if the day-to-day affairs of her domain keep her busy most of the time. She has little time for . . . anything else. Little interest, in truth."

For one reason or another, the mentioning of the Jarl seemed to only plunge Calcelmo deeper into melancholy.

But Merard needed him talking. For just a little longer. "Still," he said. "No shortage of greedy folks about I'm sure, eh? Am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong," Calcelmo replied, distaste in his voice. "But I can't be bothered to deal with them. I limit my monetary affairs to dealing with the treasury house. They suffice for me, and are not in fact entirely unpleasant to deal with."

_Now we're getting somewhere_. "Surely, though," Merard said, assuming a more serpentine tone, "there are some of the more . . . base artifacts that even you find yourself unable to part with? The more . . . exceptional ones?"

Calcelmo gave him a curious look.

_That's it, he's thinking about it!_

"Aye," the Court Wizard finally replied. "On occasion." He sighed. "In any case, I suggest we are done with the subject matter?"

"Oh, by all means! My apologies, I never meant to intrude upon you!"

"Yes," Calcelmo said.

Merard felt his expression grow cold staring at the Court Wizard's back. _Enough?_

Enough.

Calcelmo started toward the entrance. Ahead, the guard was about to step onto the first stair leading onto the platform, seeming to pay little attention to what was happening behind him. Silently, Merard unsheathed his dagger and crossed the short distance between him and the Court Wizard. Without further ado, he quickly pressed the blade on Calcelmo's throat, slicing sideways. He cut deep, all the way through the windpipe, and almost all the way to the spine. Calcelmo barely made a sound as he went down.

Hundreds of years of life, done away with by a simple turn of the wrist.

A familiar sense of thrill reached to the surface, but Merard quelled it. This was not the time.

Calcelmo made one single spluttering sound once he hit the ground, enough to alert the guard's attention. The man spun around and stared. Even with the visor covering his features, Merard could practically see the utter astonishment and uncomprehending shock writ on his face. The guard stirred, as if realizing that this was one of those moments when he had to do . . . _something_ , just could not quite figure out what that something was supposed to be. Then his arms shot out to the sword hanging on his hip.

Merard, rolling his eyes, raised a hand. A cold feeling rapidly coursed up his arms, and a projectile materialized from the center of his palm. The guard never did reach his blade. His arms jolted out to his sides, and then he slowly toppled backward, an ice spike the length of a forearm sticking out of the eye socket of his helmet.

Merard wasted no time. Sheathing the knife, he knelt down as the last spark of life was leaving Calcelmo's eyes. The perplexity that Merard knew had been there just a second ago had given way to calm vacancy. There was a certain peace to it. Acceptance, of sorts.

_Delusions, my boy. Delusions._

Single-minded, Merard pressed his hand on the dead Court Wizard's face. He closed his own eyes and focused. He nearly flinched as he felt the energy start to seep into him.

" _Who understands the mind"_ , Alabistair Adrognese's words, " _understands phenomena"_. Mental movements, thoughts, ideas, memories. All alien to himself, aligning themselves with what was already there. " _When the mind is brought under control,_ everything _is brought under control"_.

The very last thing that Adrognese taught him. The ultimate theft.

Once done, he stood up. Next, he would need to undress the corpse.

But first, another thing.

He turned about, toward the narrow passage from which they'd come. "Alright," he said in a sonorous voice. "You can come out where I can see you now."

* * *

"You can come out where I can see you now."

A shock struck Shadya's heart like the spike of ice had hit that poor guard's eye. Seeing it had struck her hard enough. But this was far worse. She was frozen in place, hiding by the cavern's entrance.

"Come on, now! We don't have all night."

Finally, she heaved a sigh. _Might as well give up, then._ With resigned determination, she walked out into the open. Her invisibility had expired by this point. She'd never felt more exposed, standing there in the cold: deep within stone, as naked as on the day her dam queened her.

Merard's stern eyes flicked down on her form, lingered on her breasts for a heartbeat, a slight frown temporarily creasing his brow, until he regained his perfect composure again. "Well, Shadya," he said slowly. "This is a surprise."

"Is it really?"

Merard tilted his head. "More or less. What were you doing following me?"

"How did you know I was here?"

"I asked first," Merard said, his eyes going again to her breasts.

Shadya crossed her arms over her chest— _under_ the breasts rather than over them—saying nothing.

Merard shrugged. "I thought I sensed something amiss. Just wasn't sure what it was. Until now."

"Ah. A bluff, then."

He smiled. "Perhaps a little."

_Damn it!_

"Don't feel bad. I would have figured you out sooner or later."

Shadya betrayed nothing of her feelings. "As you say."

A silence.

"You're not wearing any clothes."

"I'm aware of that."

"Aye," Merard said. "Just making sure. I'm sure you have your reasons."

Her eyes went to the dead bodies lying on the ground. Particularly the one of Calcelmo. "What did you do?"

Merard glanced down at the Court Wizard, shrugged again. "I killed him."

"Well, obviously! But what was that . . . _stuff_ you did . . . afterwards?"

"Ah. Just a little something. You wouldn't understand if I tried to explain. Needless to say, I can't just waltz into Calcelmo's little museum, and I suspected that simple invisibility would not work either. Wards, you see. So I needed to look like the man himself. And I . . . enabled it."

Shadya stared. "You don't look much like him to me." _Invisibility wouldn't have worked, huh?_

"That's because you know the truth."

"Ah," Shadya nodded. "That makes sense." _Does it?_

"With some things," Merard said, "once you know the truth about them, you can never delude yourself again."

_What's that supposed to mean?_ "If you say so," she replied. "And the guard?"

"Couldn't leave him breathing and walking around either, obviously."

"Of course. A stupid question." The sound of a neck snapping reverberating in an empty hallway . . .

"Yes," Merard conceded. "It was, at that."

Another stretch of silence. One of those that would make you think twice before ever applying the qualifier "uncomfortable" to another one again.

"So," Shadya said finally, shrugging. "What now?"

Merard was silent a moment longer, then cocked his head and smiled "Now?" His dagger came out of its sheath. "Why, now I'm going to kill you, of course."


	36. The Assault

_Where are you going, Quintus?_

It was a damned good question, no matter who was asking. In the freezing night darkness wrapped itself around their augmented convoy like a particularly uncomforting blanket. The wind against the jagged mountain faces surrounding them howled like a pack of starved wolves. Or _was_ it wolves? Probably it was both. At any rate, these were no circumstances for sensible folks to be out and about, but then he was far from the presence of sensible folks. After all, as bad as the situation already was, they were headlong en route to something far worse.

_What the hell are you doing here, you foolish old bastard?_

Self-derision was not among the Chief Inspector's common traits, but he had to admit that this was one of those rare occasions when it might have actually been warranted. His damned ambition! Were honor and recognition truly of higher value than his life was?

_You know the answer to that question too well to even ask it, my friend._

His immediate companions weren't showing much more enthusiasm. Meric by his side had reverted to a taciturn scowl, his strong jaw muscles clenched and his brow creased into a frown. Bull was . . . well, bull-like. And Sergeant Kayd looked the least happy of all. The Nord-Redguard mutt was all but growling at the Vigilants of Stendarr that had joined their ranks, throwing disgruntled glares at the battlemages, particularly their Dunmer leader, Azarseth.

Quintus sniffed softly. This man did not like anyone challenging his authority. A queer attitude for someone so meager in rank, but then the common people were most often endowed with small minds to accompany their small chances of improving their circumstances in life. At times he nearly pitied them.

In addition to Quintus' original entourage of five Imperial soldiers on horseback plus Kayd, Bull, and Meric and the detachment of a half-dozen Battlemages on horseback, the Vigilants had lent them an infantry battalion of ten heads. Their armor resembled the Imperial attire, only in dun colors and with the insignia of the Vigilants—which looked to Quintus like a tipped-over goblet oozing tar—emblazoned on shoulder patches.

"Alright now, listen up," bellowed Azarseth then. He rode a horse as black as the night, his long shadowy robes flowing about him like darkness about to claim back its own. "As we approach the Fellglow Keep, the chance of us running into undesirables will grow. So every man on guard!"

Kayd gave a sour sniff, scowling, and muttered, " _Undesirables_ , he says."

Quintus shook his head. Not that he was happy about the situation, either. But at least he had good reasons other than petty jealousy.

He tried his best to suffocate the image of his political enemies that suddenly threatened to arise.

"What is this place, anyway?" Meric asked the battlemage. Azarseth shot the Sergeant a contemptuous look, as if inconvenienced to find that the blowfly in the room could speak. A different man would have been cowed under that scrutiny. But not Sergeant Meric. "I mean, it would be nice to know where we are going, even if we're just going to go get ourselves killed."

Azarseth snorted, and it sounded as though his horse mirrored the gesture. "We are not going to _go get ourselves killed_ ," he sneered. "So long as your men do what they're told and don't get in our way, I can assure you this will barely be harder than swatting down some flies."

"That still didn't answer my question."

The Dunmer rolled his crimson eyes.

"Nope. That doesn't do it, either."

Azarseth sighed. "You folks truly are as children at times." He glanced at his fellows for confirmation, then sighed again. "Very well. The Fellglow Keep is a ruin of a fort in the east of Whiterun Hold. Previously occupied by a host of renegade mages, it is now believed to be squatted by an even more nefarious a group. Of necromancers, Daedra worshipers, and possibly worse. According to our latest intelligence, a most crucial target in our war. Now." He eyed the Imperials along the long bridge of his nose. "Is that enough information for your needs, or do you wish me to recite the close history of the place in question from, say, the last hundred years? Because I could."

Now it was Quintus' turn to roll his eyes.

"No," said Meric, ignoring the Dunmer's sarcasm, "that will be sufficient, thank you. It is simply good to know what we're up against." He was content ignoring Kayd's snorting, but Azarseth's smirk caused him to narrow his eyes. "I said something amusing?"

"Amusing," Azarseth finally replied. "Pathetic. Same thing, really."

Meric's teeth flashed. "Look here, you arrog—"

"What my man here is trying to say," Quintus interjected, "is that we will be more than happy to stay out of your way. The Empire has granted the Vigilants of Stendarr a full mandate to conduct their own operations, and _as representatives of the Emperor_ . . ." He addressed his pointed words straight at his sergeant ". . . we are committed to step aside where our direct interference is not needed. My host is simply to provide backup where required, while _their primary objective_ . . ." Again, directly at Meric ". . . is to keep their chief of command—in this case, me—safe in order for him to conduct _his_ own primary objectives. That is, his research into the single most insolent crime in the Empire's recent history. So." He looked at the sergeant and battlemage in turn. "Are we in full understanding?"

Still smirking, his eye on the solemn Meric, the Dunmer battlemage replied with a nod.

"Good. And Meric?"

"Aye," the man muttered, after a moment of grim-faced glowering at Azarseth.

"Splendid," Quintus said. "That's all I ask. Now, how far are we from our target? I'm sure that I am not the only one eager to get this affair over with."

"It's not far. With no further delay, shouldn't be longer than half an hour."

"Very good." _What, exactly, is good about it?_ "Thank you."

Azarseth sniffed and without further word drove his spurs into his horse's flanks and rode ahead, taking point.

Quintus settled back and saw Kayd grinning. Against his better judgement, he glared at the man. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

"You misread me," the man replied. "I'm in _awe_!"

"Awe? Of what?" He just barely managed not to embellish that with: _you insufferable oaf_.

"Why, the Imperial majesty and eminence we humble servants have the privilege of being in the presence of, of course. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm positively shivering!"

Well, at least he wasn't sulking any longer. For better or for worse.

Quintus shared the soldier but a wary glance, yet even without looking could feel Meric bristling beside him.

Kayd took notice of this too and switched his attention to the other man. "Yes? You look like you want me to help you with something."

"If I were you," Meric grated after a short silence, "I'd be more mindful about shooting my mouth like that."

"Truly?" Kayd drawled with one lazy, lifted eyebrow. He grinned. "Wanna be me now? A mighty big pair o' boots you're coveting there, sonny boy!"

"I care nothing for your taunts!" Meric said. "All I'm giving you is a fair warning. You've been testing your limits for quite long enough as it is."

Kayd turned to Bull, nudging him. "Hear that, Bull? The Imperial backscratcher has laid down the law. I'm sure you are as intimidated as I?"

Bull grunted.

Kayd smirked at Meric. "Bull is shaking in his boots," he said. "As, of course, am I."

Quintus could practically hear the creaking of Meric's jawbone as the man regarded the grinning Kayd with eyes of smoldering steel. Yet he said nothing more. And, luckily, the other sergeant kept his silence as well, leaning back with hands clasped behind his head and closing his eyes, a contained little smile about his lips.

Another welcome stretch of silence. Quintus kept resisting the urge to close his eyes. Some sleep would have been most welcome, but then he knew it would take him a while to reorient himself after a nap. He needed his wits about him, and no matter how exhausted he was starting to feel, could not risk sacrificing any acuity of mind. This moment, this thing that was about to happen, whatever it was, was too important. Too much hinged upon it. Far too long had he been waiting for this. At least the cold weather kept him from relaxing overmuch. He did his best to focus on the uninspiring scenery rushing by so as to pass the time, to keep from drifting off. The pace was sure slower now with the inclusion of infantry, no matter how relatively fast the gray-clad men marched.

First Cristus Farseer and now Azarseth had been assuring them that it was not a long way to this Fellglow Keep. Still, to the Chief Inspector's way of looking at it, they could not get there soon enough.

Just as he was about to voice a complaint about their lazy pace—or perhaps about the cold, he wasn't actually entirely sure about it, the main thing was he was feeling the urge to grumble—Azarseth raised a sharp hand, and the convoy came to grinding halt. Cursing, he had to grip the edge of his seat to not fly off. Kayd, on his part, was moved to mutter a snarled speculation about the Dunmer's improper relationship with the female who'd birthed him.

The battlemage, indifferent to, and quite unaware of, the resentment sent his way, waved his up-thrust hand toward a craggy incline to their left. "We continue that way." The hand fell. "Needless to say we will have to leave the transportation behind." He slanted Quintus a look a touch too sardonic for the Chief Inspector's tastes. "I take it that you will not find the prospect of using your feet overtly offensive." He did not pause for a reply before snapping the reins. "Proceed with caution, everyone. We draw near."

With Kayd's incendiary murmuring and the creaks and groans of the carriage, they clambered off. Suddenly Quintus, though certainly not satisfied with the situation, found himself unable to get behind the Sergeant's cantankerous sentiment. If anything, a strange numbness stole upon him, an ambiguous chill settling in the pit of his stomach. It was as though the cold surrounding them had finally seeped through his skin and was deadening him from the inside out.

The effect of alcohol, or lack thereof, he thought, and for the umpteenth time, swore to henceforth avoid sobriety at all costs.

_Well, the Emperor's gratitude shall procure you all the brandy in the world, once this is done. Not to speak of—_

Scowling, he smacked his dry mouth and tried not to let his mind linger on it. He would need to focus on the present moment, no matter its dissatisfactory quality. Getting ahead of himself could only offer a distraction. The unbeneficial kind.

Forming a line, Azarseth riding foremost with the other battlemages right behind him followed by the small infantry regiment, the original Imperial convoy bringing up the rear, they started up the rise. Quintus, flanked by sergeants Kayd and Meric—the pair shooting disgruntled glares at each other like schoolboys competing for the attention of the same lass—stared up at the back of the cinderblock-like cranium of the hulking Bull ahead, while trying his best to both ignore the two cock-boys' game of loggerheads, and to keep from losing his footing on the rimy, rutted ground. Frigid wind seemed to batter them from all sides at once, and the blankets of snow whipping diagonally down from the slate sky had turned icy wet, soon soaking everything they touched.

Yet it wasn't Mother Nature who worse bore on him.

"Sir," said Meric on his right, in that urgent way of his that so set Quintus' teeth on edge. "It would indeed be wise to take caution and hold our own troop back from the center of the action for as long as we can. These Vigilant folks are sure to know what they're doing. And it will be paramount that you stay safe, sir, lest we jeopardize our chief objectives."

Kayd, predictably, snorted. "Just listen to Captain Courageous here! Say, does everyone have their personal spade so we can each dig a hole to hide in once the bad men start crawling out of the woodwork?"

Meric jaw muscles bunched, still addressing Quintus, "While the run of the mill grunt might be eager to throw their lives away in vain, the Imperial edict decrees that—"

Another snort. "You might as well shove your precious _imperial edict_ right up your dainty little—"

"I shall soon shove my boot up yours," Meric snarled, "so deep as to dislodge that shit for peabrain of yours! I imagine that will only improve on your intelligence."

Where on the other hand Quintus found it refreshing to have the Sergeant break free of his usual squeaky-clean comportment, what with the attitude he'd shown first with Azarseth and now with Kayd, he was simultaneously starting to worry that the pressure was starting to bear unfavorably on the young man's psyche, and that he was in effect slowly cracking. It would have been most decidedly not a good time for such an occurrence.

Kayd shot the younger officer a wolfish grin. "I'd like to see you try."

"Well, just keep running your mouth and—"

"Enough!" Quintus barked. "Won't you two cut it out! Never in my career have I—" He closed his eyes, sighing deeply. "Never mind," he said more composedly. "Meric, I see the merit of your concern. I can assure you it was not my intention to jump right into the fray, and I trust the Imperial Company to ensure my safety in any situation. Kayd,—"

"Aye, boss."

Quintus glared at the man, then sighed again. "You have my order to restrain from any . . . rash actions. Your primary objective is to guard my person, not to engage in any heroics. Do I make myself clear?"

Kayd made a sloppy salute. "Perfectly, sir. The Imperial babysitter squad, at your disposal!"

"Sergeant!"

"I'm only making light of it, sir. Push comes to shove, I will be your man. You can count on that."

Another sigh. "Aye, of course. What else did I imagine?"

"Sir?"

Quintus started, as at first he thought the skies themselves had uttered the rumbled word. Then it realized it had been from Bull, lumbering ahead of him. The man actually talked!" "Yes, uh, Bull. What is it?"

The huge soldier spoke over his shoulder. "Kayd may talk the talk, sir, but come trouble, I ain't ever seen a man do meaner walking. Between the two of us, he and I will make sure no harm be done to you. And them's no empty words. Sir." Then he faced forward once more, silent.

"Yes," Quintus muttered, once recovered from the shock of hearing the man speak. "I appreciate that, Bull. You lads have my full faith, I assure you."

"You have no idea," said Kayd, "how it warms our cockles to hear those words come out of your mouth. Sir."

Quintus glanced at the man from underneath an eyebrow but made no response.

"Sir," Meric started.

Only to be met with Quintus' sharply raised hand. "No more _sir_ s, Meric. I've heard quite enough from you."

The young sergeant snapped his mouth shut, looking struck. Then, facing forward, he looked downright sullen.

_Well, let him be bloody sullen then; I'm not his damned nanny for gods' sake! What kind of a military are we running here anyway? Maybe, Akatosh forbid, Kayd has a point after all . . ._

Quintus was just about to return to his newest favorite activity, brooding, when something flashed in his peripheral vision, about the central area of their marching company. He reflexively looked over, only to see one of the infantrymen stoop to the ground, clutching his front.

"What . . ."

A crash, then, like a window smashing to pieces. The convoy had come to a dazed halt, heads whirling about, eyes scanning the surrounding sleet-choked darkness. Shouts of alarm.

Then another crash. And another. Another soldier falling, on his face in the ice and muck.

Quintus started, agape. Forgot how to react. Not reacting. Blinking. "Huh?"

"Missiles!" someone screamed. "Take cover, it's an ambush!"

Around him, the soldiers, as if suddenly remembering their training, exploded into motion. Kayd and Bull formed a small barrier in front of him, while Sergeant Meric pulled him down to a crouch. At the moment, there were no natural cover to get behind. The Imperial soldiers scampered off their horses and readied their weapons and shields; and though their steeds seemed to also understand exactly what was expected of them, to Quintus they seemed edgier than normal. As though there was something in the air they took particular exception to. This, to him was hardly a heartening sign.

More objects flashing across the air, finding targets. More fallen soldiers, among them one of the Imperials. Within just few heartbeats, and already too many by far for comfort. Everyone yelling. As though trying to remind each other, or themselves, that this was precisely the reason they'd come. Reassuring themselves, perhaps.

Were they not supposed to have been marching towards a nearly deserted target?

Quintus got a visual, then. Of the objects coursing through the air. Not arrows, but spears of ice.

Magic, then. Yet no sign of those from whom it originated. He squinted ahead, in the direction of the Battlemage detachment. As, he noted, did virtually everyone else. Gauging their reaction as for what to expect, how to respond.

Dismounted, the battlemages had formed a semicircle, an adjoined azure-and-silver wall of magical ward enshrouding them. All of them, except for Azarseth. Their leader still sat upon his night-black beast of a horse, his eye cast, it seemed, up the hill towards which they had been going.

Then, suddenly, the Dunmer spurred his horse and charged up. The other mages shared looks, confounded.

A nasty foreboding started to build within the Chief Inspector. "What is the fool . . . oh. No . . ."

Cresting the rise, Azarseth turned his horse round, gazing down the convoy with eyes flaming in the darkness. He raised his fist high in the air. And he cried out. The foreboding within Quintus blossomed in full, a terrible icy flower of feral horror. With the shock and the noise, he could not register what the battlemage was saying. He did not need to.

And then Azarseth spun once more, riding down the hill and out of sight.

But the emptiness ensuing did not last for long. Soon the crest was awash with shadows. Lots of them. They halted for a while, amassing, looming forms of imminent threat.

Then they let loose a keening, terrifying scream.

And they charged.

The battlemages were the ones to take the first hit, their collective arcane shield deflecting the bulk of the magical assault spearheading the enemy's attack. But the dark wave of the enemy surging down was too wide for them to cut off, spilling over from both sides of them, to shower over the infantrymen, who on the other hand seemed prepared enough to counter the offence.

Metal met metal in a screeching, hammering, clamor; voices raised in bilateral aggression, the surging and churning discordant harmony of violence.

There were more of the enemy, Quintus soon understood, far more than anticipated. For those now engaging the infantry, more bled past and charged at the small Imperial squad.

They were outnumbered. Heavily outnumbered.

And soon, Quintus knew, the assailants would reach to him.

The Imperial soldiers, the maneuverings of which he had observed with some pride earlier that day, took the charging, surmounting enemy with precision and confidence he knew to expect from them, but he knew not how much hope he could put in them. Likely only very little. After all, there was simply something to be said for strength in numbers, or lack thereof. Up ahead, the Vigilant infantry fought with laudable fervor, but they were rapidly being swept with more and more of foes. Further up, the battlemage squad was engulfed in a storm of magic; in addition to spells of fire and ice and lighting cast about, the combatants were surrounded by daedric conjurations. Fire Atronachs, their supple enflamed forms coursing the air and flinging fireballs at each other, a towering Frost Atronach battering away at some poor fool.

It seemed as though the enemy had brought some battlemages of their own. From the eyes glowing like ambers in the dark, it seemed at least some of them were vampires.

_Bloody_ vampires _!_

Only then, being shocked into place with this sudden conflagration raging all around, by the sight of the abominable creatures suddenly sprung forth from the depths of Oblivion, and with the deeply disquieting presence of the undead, did it occur to take in what it was exactly that they were up against. The aggressors were for the most part garbed in dark, robes casing armor of varying degree, and sure enough some had eyes glowing with unholy lambent light, but most seemed to be human. In addition to the mages up the hill, mostly it seemed they fought with sword and shield like one might expect from a soldier or a highwayman.

This was then the daedric cult that Cristus Farseer had talked about? The one occupying this Fellglow Keep? If so, it seemed as though they had been well aware something was coming. They had, it now seemed, played Farseer as the fool that he surely was. The Vigilants had let themselves be deceived. And, which became increasingly appalling apparent to him by the second, so had Quintus.

This was one oversight that looked to soon prove his very last.

Sergeant Meric, as though himself only now recovering from the sudden shock, grabbed Quintus's arm urgently. "We must fall back!"

Kayd unsheathed his blade with a hiss. "To the Void we will!"

Bull already had his weapon out. He had started to walk slowly but steadily to meet the enemy still trickling down the hill. Kayd, releasing a gut-wrenching scream full of feral bloodlust, showed less restraint and stormed headlong into the fray. Just one more demon to spill blood tonight.

"Sir?" Meric said.

Quintus slowly turned to stare numbly at the young officer. The man's face was drained of all color, a rather obvious upsurge of chagrin stealing any semblance of valor that might have once been there. Quintus could scarcely blame him. Fear made him look younger. Vulnerable.

He looked beautiful.

"Sir, if we go now, we might be able to get back to the carriage and retreat. This was an awful mistake, and I can only blame myself. How could we . . . eh, I have been so foolish. To trust those—"

Quintus surprised himself by reaching out and placing a finger over the rambling man's mouth. "Don't," he said softly.

Meric looked even more stunned now.

_What, are you going to kiss him next?_

Quintus blinked at the Sergeant's lovely frightened countenance for a heartbeat longer, then switched to observe the doomed battle.

_This is it. I am going to die._

Wasn't he supposed to feel at least a little bit more exigent about it? Indeed, he felt surprisingly little. It was as though he was observing the whole affair from somewhere far away. As though he did not have any part of this, nothing at stake. Reduced to but an impartial bystander, a mere observer. An overseer.

An inspector.

Bull and Kayd made a good fight of it, that much had to be handed to them. Even compared with the rest of their original entourage, they handled their respective weapons with clear exactness and skill. Very different styles, the two of them. Bull was like an immovable wall of flesh, yet with an incredibly quick pair of hands, swinging that heavy broadsword so lightly it seemed to defy the laws of physics, felling foes like a farmer cutting the day's swathe into his rye field. Kayd on the other hand was like some Khajiit warrior, felinely nimble and quick, always moving and not where the enemy's blades fell. And with each evaded blow, it seemed, he dealt one of his own, deathly accurate, bringing down a screaming adversary with each precise jab and blow. Truly, together, watching them work was awe-inspiring. Profoundly frightening, had he not known they were on his side. They were damned near indomitable, the pair.

And yet, even that was not enough.

Quintus flinched, nearly feeling the jab in his own gut, as he watched a large bastard with a pair of glowing eyes find a path past Bull's defenses. The demon's short sword thrusted at the giant Imperial's midsection, punching through the leather armor and sinking deep. Bull, growling, rammed a ham-sized fist into the vampire's skull so that Quintus felt the reverberation of the crack. The sword still handing off his side, Bull then sought to deflect the next attack, but even he couldn't hope to remain unaffected by a sword thrust into his belly. Strategically weakened and surrounded by fiends, the man soon became a target of more jabbing steel. And this was the tipping point.

Quintus closed his eyes in frustration. And once he opened them again, Bull was done. On his knees, still seeking to kill his accosters—even still catching one, cutting the man's legs from underneath him—he was stabbed from all sides. Stabbed and stabbed again, until he was down on the ground. And stabbed still. As his last act of defiance, he had somehow managed to catch one more man by the throat, and was throttling him even as he died.

Kayd screamed, "Bull!" pain plain in his voice, yet did not for a split second stop hacking down opponents. In anything, his movements picked up fervor, rage turning him into even deadlier of a killing-machine. Yet there was little hope for him. Even after everything.

Even after everything.

_Eyes ahead, old man!_

As if by magical pull, Quintus' attention was drawn some hundred paces uphill. As it did, everything seemed to at once grow quiet in his mind, if not outside of it as well. A very tall and broad figure strode slowly but purposefully down the slope, the fiends stepping aside and affording it a wide berth.

Just then, the numbness inside the Chief Inspector shattered. Steadily and inexorably, the dread he had thought gone grew back like a lizard's tail, shortly lashing out wildly and turning his insides over and over.

It wasn't even just the physical threat, undeniable though it might have been, of this shadowy figure treading through the darkness, the foul gleam of that pair of eyes promising untold devastation. There was something else, a profoundly disquieting presence that seemed to have attached itself to the figure. Pure malice, wrath entwined with a lust to inflict harm, defying all comparison.

Frightened, yes, that he was; profoundly so. Yet, Quintus realized right then, that wasn't all. Scared out of his wits . . . and madly _aroused_.

The enemies assailing Kayd had suddenly dispersed, and the Sergeant stood with his legs set wide apart, heaving thick white billows of heavy breath, his attention now fixed on the nearing figure. As the figure, now apparent as a vampiric Redguard with close cropped salt-and-pepper hair and goatee to match, drew closer, hesitation shone in Kayd's deportment. Yet, that only lasted for a moment. Clearly decided on the appropriate response, Sergeant Kayd hoisted his weapon high in the air, screamed out a most vehement curse, and then stormed to meet this new formidable foe.

The vampire stopped in his tracks at the smaller man's charge, hefted the warhammer that it carried in one hand, pulled it back as though preparing for a wide countering swing. And, far too soon, it seemed, he then swung the hammer forward.

At let it loose.

Taken by total surprise, Kayd tried to readjust his course to avoid the unexpected flying object. It was too late, and so, by sheer reflex, he thrusted his sword arm forward to catch the blow. And so it did, but at a steep price. The Sergeant let out a shattered cry as the heavy weapon struck his arm, knocking his own blade clean off. The impact spun him toward his left and forced him on his knees. The vampire soon closed the gap between them, reached out with both hands and grabbed Kayd by the shoulders. With evident ease, it lifted the man in the air and tossed him straight back like a doll.

The bewildered, howling Kayd summersaulted over the brute's head and described a clear arc across the air, to be caught by the waiting hands of a band of vampires lurking behind their leader. As soon as they got him, each grabbing a limb, they started to convey him up the hill at a run.

Quintus watched in mute horror as the creatures toted the kicking and cursing Kayd away. _There are great many uses for people_. The Sergeant's own words echoing in his head.

The leader, looking back observing the retreat of its minions, then swung its large head back round. Locked those awful eyes with Quintus'. And it smiled, a horrid rictus grin. Turning the Chief Inspector's insides into liquid.

The vampire continued its unhurried striding. Quintus found that he could not look away from those eyes, as though fasted to them by the sheer power of terror.

Then Meric stepped up, putting some five feet between him and his Charge, sword and shied readied, and cried, "Back!"

The vampire did not even seem to notice him.

This did not dishearten the young sergeant. With a bellow, he sprang forward, going at the vampire with a powerful sideways swing.

Without shedding the attacking man a single glance, the vampire simply raised its unprotected left arm in the way of the sword's trajectory. There was a resounding clang, and Meric's sword arm jolted off to the side with a cry of surprise and evident pain from him. Nothing, however, from the vampire, who wasn't even slowed down by all this. Those loose-sitting long robes must have covered a layer of armor.

But Meric soon recovered. He bolted after the giant, going for a jab right into its exposed flank. The demon swung around preternaturally fast, reached out the selfsame arm and caught the blade of Meric's sword into its gloved hand.

Meric, eyes wide, was stopped short. He gaped dumbfounded at the vampire, even as it pulled violently to wrench the weapon from his hand. Eyes now fixed on the sergeant, the vampire tossed the blade high in the air. Gaping, Meric's eyes followed it spinning over and over above them. The vampire, never removing its eyes from his foe, then reached up as the sword came down, caught it by the hilt, and before the man could even react, plunged it clean through the leather armor protecting Sergeant Meric's gut.

The young man's bulging eyes stared at disbelief the hilt protruding out of his middle. He opened his mouth, but only a feeble, pained squeak escaped, followed then by a gush of blood. His knees buckled from underneath him even as the vampire turned round once more to bear on Quintus.

As the vampire closed in, the Chief Inspector found himself staring no longer at its eyes, but rather at the arm. Where Meric's sword had lacerated the cloth of the robes and the leather of the glove, there was a glimmer of metal.

The vampire, coming to a halt, glanced down at where Quintus' eyes were fastened, and smiled its dreadful, mirthless smile. Then it grabbed the tattered sleeve of the left arm with its right hand, and tore.

Quintus felt his eyes growing wider contemporaneously with his shrinking innards as he stared at the bared arm. No, there was no armor underneath. Nothing of the sort. Instead, the arm itself, the entire arm, was _made_ of metal. Brazen-hued and gleaming dully, with a large spool-like joint at the elbow, it was a sight that had no place being where it was, protruding off the elbow of this tall abomination. And yet, by some atrocious freak of nature, it somehow seemed to belong there. Belong with this horrid creature.

The vampire took one more stride to reach Quintus, thrusted out the metal arm and grabbed the old man by the throat. And lifted.

Airways suddenly barred, Quintus gurgled as his feet were lifted easy off the ground. The demon pulled him right close, stuck its flaming eyes next to his.

And he could not look away. Despite, and because of, what he saw in them.

Afterwards, it would be absolutely impossible for him to describe what happened next, and indeed despite his best efforts, he could not even correctly bring his mind back to it. It was as if the memory was too slippery to get a hold of, or like the aspect of the sun, too blazing bright for eyes to linger on.

What he could feel, though, is that those eyes seemed to contain something, something not simply inherent to this unholy apparition's own soul. And whatever it was, that something seemed to somehow . . . _transfer_ into Quintus. He recoiled, in horror and in something even worse; but there was no more he could do to resist as could a goblet shy away from wine poured into it. At the moment, he was as a vessel. A vessel to this . . . blinding terror.

Yes, that was the word. Pure _terror_.

And wrath.

Glee.

_Power_!

The demon's smile was an open wound, a dug-out grave bleeding out resurgent horrors. The creature spoke then, a graveled sound like the heavy lid of a sarcophagus wrested loose. "Do you like . . . what you see . . .," it said, ". . . Quin- _tussss_?"

The Chief Inspector's mouth was open but only a tortured wheeze came out.

And then he was flying backwards, his stomach turning inside out. He was just about to cry out when the ground rushed up to plummet him, driving the air out of his lungs. His entire body in sudden explosive pain, his vision was flooded with bright flashing stars.

When he came to just enough to open his eyes once more, the battle was over. The vampire, instead of following after him to finish what it had started, had turned about and was returning up the hill, just as unhurriedly as it had arrived. The rest of the fiends scurrying in less good form. All about, the hill was riddled with corpses: legionary, Vigilant, horse, and near the crest, battlemages in a disordered heap. It was dead silent, miscounting the caws and cries of carrion birds that had already started to assemble for their late-night feast.

A tattered sight, almost a sob, forced itself through Quintus, lying on the cold ground propped up by his elbows. Then the shakes started. A heave of the stomach, and he retched convulsively; partly on the ground, but mostly on himself. Feebly, he then crawled to the roadside, leaning against a boulder, breathing heavily and brokenly. Partly afraid someone would still come and finish him off, or worse. Partly worried the carrion birds would take him for dead—or at least dead enough—and make him the appetizer. Partly not even caring.

For certain, there was no trace of arousal left.

Then, as part of him waited for death to descend upon him any minute, the image of the battlemage, Azarseth, returned to him. Turning around at the top of the hill, gazing upon his supposed comrades. At that moment, Quintus had _known_. They had been foolish to trust one such like him. Such darkness about the fellow. It should have been obvious. Even in his sorry state, he shivered at the memory of that cry. Only now, after the fact, was he able to register some of it. Or did he remember it wrong? Had there been something about, " _the queen of the dead_ "?

Indeed there had, that much was clear. And yet something else. _Wrath_ something?

Exhausted, Quintus pushed the matter aside, and closed his eyes. There was particular coldness about his crotch, he realized. Wetness. He'd pissed himself.

It did not matter now.

Upon shutting his eyes, then, there was flash in his mind, almost too quick to register, of the most brutal imagery. Spilling blood, breaking bone, tearing of flesh. Fire and lighting. Unremitting screams accompanying it all, and underneath, the most wicked sort of elation. There was truth to the vision, he was sure, but knew not what it was; had no idea of what it could have meant. Did not want to.

He was so tired.

_Am I . . . ?_

Then darkness claimed him.


	37. The Prize

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

Shadya stared at the jovially grinning Merard with the gore-stained dagger in his hand directed point-first at her, a growing cold numbness stealing into her body. A mixture of disbelief and terror.

_You're going to . . ._ what _?_

"Well." Merard shrugged, amused, as thought she'd just said something utterly irrational. "I can't let you live, now can I? You've just made yourself a witness." He gave his head a regretful shake. Blood was still pooling around the corpse of the Court Wizard Calcelmo at his feet, the flow from the yawning gash in his neck slowly winding down. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you? Curiosity . . . that stuff kills, y'know."

Shadya's mouth opened. Then closed again. Not a single congruent thought came to mind. She felt . . . surreal. In the meantime, Merard advanced at his leisure, unmindful or uncaring of the fact that he was walking in the blood of his victim. The blood held such a strong odor. Metallic. Cloying. Nauseating . . . Invigorating. Shadya glanced down and saw that her talons had slithered out of their own accord. _What's happening here_?

Then Merard lunged. And before she even realized it, Shadya had whirled out of the knife's track and backpedaled clear of the man wielding it.

Merard followed, unhurried. Tracing bloody footprints with each step. "Tell you what, though," he said. "I'll be fair and stow the magic. How's that?"

Shadya blinked, then finally found her wits. Claws hissing though the air, she suddenly pounced to take a swing at the Breton's head. "Mistake!"

Merard twisted back to only just avoid his face getting skinned, then nimbly spun round and repositioned himself. Shadya did not press on him, nor did he launch an immediate attack. She still barely acknowledged that they were actually going at each other, and was somewhat unclear as to the exact reason behind it. The whole affair retained an altogether unreal quality. As if this was only _sort of_ happening.

But it was real. And the sheer immediacy of it all, she knew, would soon hit her.

"Be that as it may," Merard said blithely, hefting the knife in his hand. He still wore that stupid little smirk of his. "I think that I've owed you that much."

Shadya felt the rush of anger then. A feral kind of fury. She snarled, "You owe me nothing!" And surged to take another swing at the man. Once. Twice. And again. Time and time over, Merard evaded the blows. And through it all, he kept beaming like an idiot. Was this a game to him? "I don't know what's got into you," she hissed between blows. "But I'm not about to run if that's what you were hoping!"

Merard dove from underneath a particularly close lash, did a double somersault, and as soon as he was back on his feet, pivoted back into a ready stance. After the sudden gush of raw energy, Shadya needed to catch her breath for a second, so she stayed where she stood. She felt adrenaline pumping hard, coursing through her, bringing sharp acuity to all of her senses. She suddenly felt so . . . alive. More than she could remember feeling in a good long while. She felt strong. She _was_ strong. Hand to hand, this little man would have stood no chance. He barely did now.

Yet he did not seem aware of, or in any case the least bit concerned about it. The grin had gone nowhere. "I wouldn't have dreamt of it. I expected no less than a good fight." He studied her, then cocked his head. "It does feel good, does it not?"

"It'll feel good licking your blood off my claws!"

Merard pursed his lips. "Oooh. Now that's a _bad_ kitty!"

He was toying with her! And to what end? Why was he doing this? Shadya bared her teeth in frustration and in fury.

_You can hiss and you can growl, but that won't hide the fact that anger is not all_ _that you're feeling at the moment . . . Ah, won't you get a good deep sniff of that that sweet,_ sweet _blood! Quite puts us in the mood doesn't it?_

"Are you just gonna stand there, then?" she spat at Merard, if only to silence her own mind.

He tipped his head slightly, then started toward her in a queer little dance, waving the knife from side to side.

Suddenly strangely giddy, Shadya braced herself. _Well come on then!_

* * *

He felt nothing.

In spite of the antics that came upon him all of their own accord, the playful yet bloodthirsty mummer he was twisting himself into, none of it touched him beyond the affected surface. As was usual, the smile strewn across his lips reached nowhere close to his heart. Looking at Shadya, the interchanging dance of puzzlement, terror, and erratic fury plain on her mien, he could not find any of those emotions in himself. No feeling whatsoever.

_Is that precisely the truth, now?_

It seemed that something of the ancient Court Wizard's detached cynicism refused to diffuse and kept pushing itself into the surface of his mind—he could tell its indelible flavor apart from his own. For all its timeworn aloofness, it retained passion alien to what he knew of himself, its mockery a sharp needle jabbing through the scar tissue encasing the man Merard had once been. Or, rather, had almost let himself become. And this was slowly but surely starting to perturb him.

_So. Not so numb after all._

Pushing away his father's voice, he voiced a hollow laugh. The knife threaded back and forth in the air between them, Shadya's eyes following its point. "Isn't this nice? Just you and I. I only wish the circumstances could be more . . . amicable."

Shadya merely cocked her head at his words, a strange expression on her.

Merard laughed again. "It's just as well, I suppose," he said, shrugging. "One form of carnal passion is as good as the other."

_What the hell did that mean?_

Shadya, snarling, then hurled herself at him. He smiled.

Just as he had hoped.

Animal fervor stymied more well-proportioned finesse in combat, bringing along with its benefits a specific set of serious failings. And what might have been enough in a chance encounter with a back alley ruffian, fell ruefully short with Merard Motierre. Magic or no.

This feline female was the sort of fiddle he could play in his sleep.

He sidestepped Shadya's plunge, spun, and sought to wipe out her legs from underneath her. But the Khajiit evaded his sweeping leg by nimbly somersaulting over it. She immediately followed this by a backwards lash. Merard once more twisted his face narrowly out of the way of those talons, made to thrust his knife at her chest. Shadya twisted out of the way, and rammed her elbow hard into his face. He was thrown back, and Shadya followed with the intention of driving her claws home. Even as he went down, he managed to thrust out his leg, getting a good kick in her side. He crashed onto the ground, and the feline was sent the opposite way. Then they were both on their backs.

But not for long. Simultaneously, they sprung up, each intent on finishing what they'd started. Yet, as they rushed at each other with respective weapons poised, Merard realized that he wouldn't be able to carry out his offence while avoiding Shadya's. The same went for her, and he could see it in her eyes that she realized this as well. In motion already, however, it was nearly too late for recourse.

Closely diving from under the Khajiit's lashing talons, his own weapon sailing near beside her head, Merard's arm nearly got tangled with hers in the passing. Once past her, then, he drove his heels into the turf and, whirling, launched himself into an immediate follow-up. Shadya had come to a similar halt, he saw, and was going for another spinning backwards slash with her left paw. This time there really was no time for recourse, and a shockwave of pain divaricated all across Merard's face, as her talons tore at the cheek of his sideways-turned face. Blood spattered, and his eyes watered, his vision blurring.

But the knife had already been steadily en route to Shadya, and would not be deterred by the sudden pain on his face. Temporarily blinded, he felt the slight resistance as the blade grazed at her side, and registered with some satisfaction her hiss of pain.

Yet there was no pause. Blinking through the mist, Merard went for another slash from his right. Shadya's instincts were quick, and she slammed her right hand hard into Merard's. Claws sheared the fabric of his sleeve, and the arm was driven to the side. The blow as hard enough to loosen his grip, and nearly knock the weapon off.

Shadya followed his own trajectory by pirouetting to her left, and Merard mirrored this by following his swatted arm, spiraling to the right. As he came back round, he saw Shadya still spinning, as if the small lash at her side made it harder for her to stop the motion; or perhaps she was trying to swirl away from him. Whatever it was, he made use of the opportunity. Flinging the knife into his left hand, he employed all the propelling power in his disposal and stormed forward, crashing into Shadya's exposed back.

And all movement came to a sudden stop.

His knife resting against her throat, his body pressed into hers, Merard felt the female's raw strength, from the heavy, heaving breath to the tensed muscles of her supple frame, thwarted and frustrated. In his power. The whole world ground to a halt, it seemed. In the silence, every pin-drop would have tolled as vibrant as the most portentous of death-knells.

Nothing was said. And for a while, nothing happened.

Until something did. His right hand, pressed on Shadya's belly, stirred. And before he even fully comprehended what was happening, it was sidling upward. It came to stop on her left breast, paused there. And then went on, cupping the underside.

The Khajiit's breath catching was palpable.

Merard, in contrast, was breathing hard. Something that had been lurking underneath the surface for a long, long time, repressed and shackled, suddenly reigned supreme; and for all the might of his will, he could not stop it.

In truth, did not even want to.

Giving the breast a gentle squeeze, he found it firm and springy . . . and most furry.

_Kinda funny, don't you think, that the Khajiit should have such hominid mammaries, when—_

_Quiet!_

Merard, uncharacteristically robbed of the ability to control himself, still had to wonder what it was he thought he was doing. But even that curiosity seemed to lack in true fervor, as though the whole affair was a matter of mere passing, lazy curiosity. He felt almost . . . possessed. At least he was able to suppress the urge to go even further, to pinch the nipple between his fingers . . .

_Ah, you naughty boy!_

Shadya's left arm moved, then, but Merard had no time to react. Not before he felt the warmth closing in about his crotch. Felt the soft squeeze.

_Oh . . ._

* * *

Shadya's breath was once more caught in her throat.

_The bastard!_

She had felt shocked at first, feeling his hand slither up to her breast, then a surge of indignant rage over the uninvited infraction. But there was more. Much more. And it didn't seem to matter one whit how much she tried to resist it, tried denying it. Her heart raced, and it wasn't solely due to exertion. Not even just anger.

She did her damnedest to stifle the treacherous frustration, the yearning for the man to go even further. To move just a little higher, and catch her nipple between those supple fingers . . .

_Stop it! Stop it_ now _!_

_You know you want it, you naughty kitty!_

The solid embrace of his knotted arm around her, holding her in place. The heavy, hot breath on her neck, stirring the hairs and making the skin underneath tingle. She could feel the firm muscles about his torso, tensed and seething with raw, explosive strength.

It was not with a small amount of satisfaction, then, that she felt his breath in turn halt as she foisted her paw between their pressed together bodies, to grasp a handful of his crotch. She clasped, softly yet resolutely, and soon felt a stirring.

She couldn't stifle a small, kittenish smile.

_Well, well; looks like we've got a—_

Shadya, saying nothing, turned her head slightly sideways, pressing her neck against the shorter man's face. She let out a low, growling sound. Like a kit purring at her mother.

"Well—" Merard breathed.

He got no further. Shadya abruptly gripped as hard as she could, her ear smarting at the man's cry of surprise and pain. The knife came off her throat. Still holding tight, she drove the back of head into the man's nose, both felt and heard it crunching. She released him, then, and even as he was reeling, cocked her arm. "You _bastard_!" Paw squeezed into fist, she bludgeoned the side on Merard's head, sending him sprawling.

The incensed Shadya pressed right on after him, plunging at his pitching form talons-first, not even sure of what she intended to do. She knew that whatever it was, it had something to do with hurting. And yet, even with his nose busted and gonads mismanaged, the fight had gone nowhere from the Breton, as evinced by his feet which at once struck her midriff. Her motive power had grown too critical at this point, however, for even the strong man to propel her back, so instead he threw her over himself. She landed softly on her shoulder and rolled over it to come to a crouching position. From there, she launched back. By this point, Merard had quickly clambered into a squat as well, and was in turn just about to dive at her.

They slammed into each other. Shadya grabbing the hand with the knife in her left one, Merard locking the strong fingers of his other hand around her right wrist. Both unable to lash at the other. And down they went, on the ground, rolling. Each striving for the upper hand.

And they rolled. Over and over. And over. Round and round.

Then, finally, after who knew how many grunting, cursing barrel-rolls on the cold, hard ground, they stopped. Shadya blinked. Merard was on top of her, his sweating, bleeding, grimacing face a hand span away from her own. And about her throat, resting right on top of the wind pipe, was the sharp edge of his dagger blade. Conversely, the bared talons of her right paw sat contented about his neck with all those bulging vessels, the claws of the index and middle fingers right about exactly where his left jugular vein pumped blood from his head to his heart.

Breathing heavily, eyes turning down as if to observe her claws' position, Merard frowned. And then grinned. To be sure, it did not seem as though the torn skin on his cheek, the broken nose, or his surely hurting family jewels had been deterring him overmuch. In fact, he almost seemed to draw some warped sort of vigor from the pain. "Well," he said.

"Yeah," she confirmed. Staring at his face, not seeming able to make sense of the man.

He let out an abrupt snicker. "Oh you should see your face! In fact, you should have seen it this whole time! Priceless! Absolutely priceless!"

Shadya simply glowered.

Merard sobered. "I was never going to hurt you."

"Yes, of course," she said. "I believe that."

"No really. I was just having a bit of . . . fun with you."

"Fun," she said flatly. "Aye. Well, that was sure what it was." _Now, don't go denying you—_ "I look particularly fondly back at the moment when you nearly gutted me. Yeah, good times, old friend."

"Ah. So I might have gotten a bit carried away there." He shrugged. "It happens. But I do apologize. And at least you got out of the way just in time . . . mostly anyway. Above and beyond, it's nothing I cannot easily heal."

Incredulous, Shadya made a face. "You don't really expect me to . . . believe you, do you?"

Merard withdrew the knife. "I'm telling you, it's the gods' honest truth."

"You must be taking me for a one Alkosh-pissed-on gullible spawn of a fool, if you think that I'll trust—"

He tossed the knife over his shoulder, then, and spread out his hands about his head. Smiling, unperturbed. "I'm at your mercy."

She eyed him hard for a good while, her talons staying right where they were. He was just trying to dupe her, she knew it. But then why had he dropped his weapon? It did not seem to make much sense, she had to admit. And he did look earnest . . .

Earnest, yes, and, despite all the blood marring his strong features, so incredibly—

_You bastard! Why are you doing this to me?_

Narrowing her eyes at him, nearly— _very_ nearly—driving her claws all the way into his neck, Shadya bit her teeth, wanting to growl. Then, with the sighed release of a long-held breath, retracted her claws, letting the arm drop, tired, onto her chest.

"A most wise decision," Merard said, and calmly stood. As the suddenly exhausted Shadya's eyes followed him, he sauntered off to where his dagger had fallen, picked it up to return to its scabbard.

Shadya closed her eyes, to rekindle her lost vigor, to feel vitality return to her body in a sudden leap of not entirely natural energy. When she opened her eyes again, it was if they'd never fought in the first place.

Well, her slash on the side of her belly still hurt like Oblivion. The man had better make good of her word about healing her. But she would _not_ ask him to.

Kicking her legs in the air, she thrusted her body upward, coming to a crouching position. She eyed Merard with what she hoped came out as utter animal distrust. He was still smiling.

"So, what now?"

The smile widened. They had posed the question univocally.

"Who sent you?"

Same thing.

"You first," said Merard.

"Nu-uh," replied Shadya. "You're still trying to earn back my trust, funny-man. Remember?"

"Fair enough." He nodded, and rivulet of blood shot out from around his busted nose to run down his cheeks. He seemed to almost not even notice being hurt. "I was commissioned by the Nightingale," he said without preamble. "You next."

"The Nightin— . . ." Her heart jumped. _Rajhin curse your name, Shadya Da'kheavek, what have you gotten yourself into now?_

Merard, simpering, "Oh, so you've heard of him? A suave fellow, him. A most charming smile." His brows rose. "And your patron . . . ?"

Recovered from the minor shock, Shadya gave her head a trivializing shake. "A nobody. Not anyone youda heard of, anyway. A Bosmer of no significance."

The Breton regarded her a while through narrowed eyes, then simply nodded.

"So." Shadya spread her arms wide then let them drop. "What now?"

"I'm going to have to assume we're after the same prize here."

A pause. "A precious gem about this size—"

"Vaguely the shape of a heart. Aye. As I thought."

Another pause. Then, "I ain't backing down."

"I did not ask you to."

"So _you_ will?" Shadya wanted to snort.

Merard went ahead and did. "Not likely."

"So." Shadya repeated her earlier gesture. "What do we do about this?"

Merard shrugged. "I don't see many alternatives. Clearly we're going to have to work together."

Shadya nearly choked. "Say, what? I must have misheard you."

"You heard me just fine. We work together. Once we procure the stone, we work out the rest."

"Another scrap, Merard? For real this time?"

He laughed. "I don't think that is going to be necessary, dear Shadya. After all, we are both civilized beings, are we not?"

Was that another jab at her? "Told you I ain't—"

"Backing down. Aye. And I told you I was not asking you to."

Her eyes narrowed, and she felt her tail shifting on the ground behind her. What was he planning?

_Well, whatever it is, he's not going to succeed._ She would go with this foolish proposal of his, she decided, use him for what she could, and when the time was right, snatch the gem right out from underneath his arrogant, smirking nose.

"Alright," she said with appropriate doggedness. "I suppose that's what we'll have to do then."

"Excellent," he beamed. "You won't regret it. We'll figure something out, you'll see."

"As you say." She gazed down at her uncovered body. "Now, we have a slight problem." The invisibility potion. She was fresh out. And couldn't well be seen walking around like this about the palace premises, now could she?

"None that I can see." Merard jerked his head toward the dead guard. "You've worn one of those before, if I'm not mistaken. He's about your height. Try 'em out."

A sudden distaste at that, what with the memory of that ice spear sinking into the man's eye socket and all. Yet, had she not disposed of another such as him, and worn the clothes without blinking too much? In any case, there wasn't much choice for her if she was going to take the Breton up on his offer. With a sigh, she walked over to the supine corpse, swallowing hard against disgust, removed a boot first, then another. They looked about right. She went for the breeches next. The helmet would come off last. She'd have to clean off the blood and the . . . _eye-stuff_ before donning it.

She felt bile rising at the mere thought.

_What made you all lily-livered all of a sudden_?

Meanwhile, Merard was looking completely contented, unceremoniously disrobing the deceased ancient High Elf. In fact, the man looked damned closed to breaking into a whistle. Blood was still seeping out of the talon-marks on the side of his face and out of his busted nose. Those didn't seem to bother him none, either. Certainly not enough to hurry with the healing.

_Who . . . no,_ what _are you, Merard?_

"So," she said, unbuckling the guard's belt, _not_ looking at his head, "If we're doing this, I need to know. You're not gonna go all . . . crazy on me, are you?"

Merard looked up, giving her an innocent look. He had stripped to his waist, the muscles of his torso gleaming with sweat, and Shadya wasn't going to let her eyes linger on those either. "Me? I'm sure I don't understand what you mean."

She could have punched that simpering face all over again.

_Bet you'd like to take another roll too, while he's—_ "I need your word. You're going to act normal and not launch into some other bizarre act of _humor_." The word tasted sour in her mouth.

A small pause. "You have my word," he said soberly.

She considered him for a moment. _Damn you, you bastard!_ "Fine. Guess I'll have to take that."

"You won't regret—"

"And no more killing!"

Now it was Merard's turn to regard her for a while. Then he raised his hand. "I promise."

Shadya sighed. _Good enough_. And she went back to her macabre work.

It seemed that no words were going to be wasted on what had transpired earlier. Their little . . . _moment_ together. She could still feel his hand on her breast. The intrusion.

And the shadow, still, of that uninvited, treacherous lust . . .

Bending down to continue stripping the dead guard, she winced at the stab of pain about her midriff.

_Now, are you gonna do something about this damned burning gash or not, you bastard?_

Before her traitorous mind had a chance to jump at the poorly chosen wording of that thought, she silenced it with firm determination.

* * *

_Gotta hand it to you, son, you play a clever little game. Even I can't figure you out on occasion. I have to assume you plan to—_

Merard, not even wanting to respond to the persistent voice in his head anymore, directed his attention for the umpteenth time to tactile sensations instead. The pain about his face lingered even after the healing spell. He could have done away with that too had he so chosen, but he had not. The pain, he rationalized, kept him attentive, gave him an edge. It also provided a focus point, to keep his mind from wandering into unsafe territories. So he did not try to push it away or deny it. No, he would cherish it, let it feed him. Make him stronger.

_You truly are even more twisted than I had imagined. Not_ my _doing, for sure—_

Calcelmo's robes had proved cumbersome. A taller man by at least a head, the Court Wizard's garb was obviously far too big on Merard. The sleeves, despite careful tucking, still kept dropping down past his hands, and the hem kept finding its way under his feet, continuously threatening to trip him. Fortunately none of this showed to the watches, who, thanks to the clever illusion spell he was under, would see nothing amiss. No, as far as they were considered, there was just the Court Wizard accompanied by a personal guard, cutting through the Dwemer Museum to return to his laboratory.

Shadya, on the other hand, saw him just as he was: a squat thief comically drowned in outsized clothes, like a child attired in his big brother's school robes. And though he wasn't able to read anything on her face, the position of her ears told him loud and clear that she was indeed smirking. He pretended not to take notice of this.

The feline had her own worries. She kept shying her conspicuously hairy arms behind her back, despite all of Merard's assurances that the obscuration spell he'd cast upon her would render such gestures meaningless. Truth be told, only after she'd donned the whole getup had it occurred to him to suggest making her completely invisible, with a sturdy spell which would last for a good while. The utter contempt in her bearings that had followed, he'd had to admit, he couldn't figure out.

Females of any species, it seemed, were an enigma. An enigma with no answer, so there was absolutely no point in wasting energy thinking about it.

As he and his not-invisible follower passed them, the museum guards stiffened in a deferential—or perhaps, he considered, simply _cagey_ —manner, which Merard, despite all his anti-authoritarianism, found strangely pleasing. This ignominious emotion was then dampened by the bemusement about the way they looked over his head in search of his eyes. As Calcelmo had been considerably taller than Merard, in the eyes of those who'd known him he would ever remain so. So that is how they now saw him. Although it made sense from the Illusion magical point of view, in practice it nevertheless spooked him out. A most unwelcome reminder, perhaps, that he still held on to the image of an identity to a distracting degree.

_From Someone, through Anyone, we grow into No One_. Again, his mentor Alabistair Adrognese's words springing back to him. _The mage travels home toward the gates of Nothingness, until but his Will reigns absolute_.

A contemptuous snort in the back of his mind. _Adrognese's obsessions, not yours! You are Merard Motierre, the son of—_

Someone, Anyone, No One. According to his mentor, key concepts in the creed of an arcane cult that had held some sway in Tamriel centuries ago, and whose teachings had greatly influenced him. The Order of No One, they called it. An ancient cult—perhaps the most ancient one of them all—they had supposedly worshiped a god they called No One, claiming him the One True God. In him—or perhaps _it_ —they had believed were found the answers to the greatest questions. Such as, who created the world? No One. Who is our ultimate authority? No One. Who shall judge us once we're dead?

Who hears and answers our prayers? Who offers us solace?

And not only was No One the ultimate truth about the universe, but about each individual as well, residing in the deepest recesses of one's soul, or lack thereof. It was then the holy religious duty of the acolyte to find the No One from within himself, in order to return to the Nothingness from whence he came.

According to Adrognese, the order was around to this day. Invisible, unassuming. Worshiping, if indeed such a term could even be applied, their anonymous god, the only one there ever was or would be. Or would _not_ be . . . In any case, persisting. He'd even said he had run into members of the cult. Gray, unimpressive folk, but as real as any other sect. That's what he'd said.

But then the old man was always spewing lies.

In any case, how exactly all this No One and Nothingness business tied in with magic was a complicated matter, the ins and outs of which were a mystery to all but the old man himself; and, truth be told, likely more or less so for him as well. But it wasn't academic system building the admittedly genial wizard had been interested in. No, his goal had been no more or less than becoming the greatest mage who had ever lived. And he had not kept this ambition of his under wraps, either. If anything, it had been the exact opposite. Most people called him a madman, either behind his back or straight to his face; and he'd never once bothered trying to deny this, either. Instead, his usual reaction had been a private little chuckle, which had not gone far in dispelling those initial estimations. Not that he'd cared.

_You're rambling . . . to yourself!_

"To become as nothing."

Shadya, by his side, started at his sudden, grated utterance.

He gave her a grave scrutiny. Her looking him flush in the eye was strangely reassuring. "Have you not ever wondered what we, as thieves, are?"

"I don't . . . I don't follow."

"We exist ever _in between_." He motioned with his hands in a way he hoped conveyed what he thought he was saying. "Between two instances of possession, between two expressions of the illusion of permanence. Always in the middle, always _in the gray_. What does that make us?" The Nightingale's, or rather, Bashnag's, words coming out of him now. There was some truth in them, one that he'd bypassed before, and one he could not even now put a finger on. It spoke to some inner part of his, one that he'd purposely ignored for a long time. Could he ignore such things indefinitely? Had the unbecoming already commenced?

Shadya was quiet for a while. "The Gray Maybe."

"Huh?"

"Isn't that what they call it, the world? A slice of ambivalence, teetering between Aetherius and Oblivion. Lorkhan's sick little joke. Seems to me we belong just fine."

Merard tipped his head. "Your learnedness impresses me."

She snorted. "I've read here and there when bored. Listened to drunken priests yammer on, awaiting the chance to rip them off."

"Robbing priests, Shadya? Tsk! What admiration you might have just gained from me, you now lost."

She snorted again. "Like I care a shit for your admirations."

Saying no more, Merard eyed Shadya for a moment longer—all poise and self-possession even with her arms still coyly hid behind her—feeling a sudden surge of admiration, spiked by a sting of something like . . . remorse.

Why remorse?

He shook his head to clear all emotional involvement, to void himself of this needy, neurotic heap of flesh called the _human being_ ; to once more embody one thing and one thing only, his objective.

The final thought as they moved away from the museum toward Calcelmo's lab, one which flickered out of existence almost as soon as it emerged, pertained to the hulking Dwarven Centurion dominating the museum's middle floor. What would it be to control such things? To have them in your command to do your bidding? Why, it would indeed be _power_ , would it not?

_Power inexorably enslaves its wielder._

As his mind once more took on the aspect of void acuity, Merard sighed silently. Mad as he might have been, Alabistair Adrognese had seldom been wrong.

_Cursed be his very memory!_

Then, just as soon as he'd managed to settle his mind anew, something else happened. At the entry room from which a gateway led to where the Court Wizard's quarters had to be, standing arms crossed in the dead center, waited another guard. Differently attired, this one, in a full set of heavy steel plate armor, the tall bastard initially took no notice at them entering. Then, as he casually glanced above Merard's head, a deep frown marred the gray-bearded Redguard's already lined aspect. His eyes dropped to meet Merard's real ones, and then went wide.

_Uh oh_.

After a split second's hesitation, the man's hand shot out for the axe hanging on his hip, heralded by a guttural curse out of his mouth. Too late. By the time his fingers had reached the hilt, the heat of flame had traveled out of the crown of Merard's head to the tip of his fingers, and a large fireball rapidly formed in the space between his upraised hands.

With a squeal, Shadya lurched the other way as the fireball sprang forth from the Breton's fingers. The guard tried in vain to bring his arms up in protection as the flaming projectile hit him. There was a resounding explosion, and Merard felt the blast wave on his face, even though the heat did not injure the caster. Shadya, on the other hand had done wisely to get out of the way just in time, as her fur would have been subject to incineration. The guard was lifted clean of the ground and sent flying through the air, coming to slam into the wall beside the gate. Smoke rising from his senseless body, the man collapsed, boneless, to the ground.

Shadya nimbly picked herself off the ground, fury twisting her features. "What the fuck was that!"

"Somehow he was able to see right through the glamour," Merard replied absently, feeling his brow crumple. "A special sort of guard, I suppose, so perhaps he shared a special bond, also, with the Court Wizard. Curious."

The Khajiit was not satisfied with this. "You said no more killing! You _promised_!"

Merard glanced over. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Um, well, he'll live." He switched his attention to the heap of guard on the ground. Face badly burned under the helmet, as were his bared arms, skin starting to blister. Breathing shallow. "Most likely."

"Merard!"

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, then."

He walked over to the man, converted the direction of his own internal vibration, reversing the intention. In place of flame and conflagration, instead of destruction and death, he felt health and vigor overtake his entire being, a glowing lightness and ease, like a buoyant light dancing all about his insides. There was something deeply unpleasant about the sensation. Hands emitting a radiant glow, he then placed them above the man, felt the low buzz and hum of his vital functions, heard in his own ears the feeble beat of his heart. Recognized the deep damage to his skin, the profuse bleeding of his internal organs. This was a man mere minutes away from his own death.

Did not Merard on some level nearly envy him?

Softly shaking his head, he let the curative energy flow from himself into the other man. Slowly, the damage was undone, the healing process coaxed and accelerated. Life, previously hanging by the thinnest of threads, slowly returned, robust, into this strong and formidable warrior. Merard was careful, on the other hand, to not let it return too strongly, and used his arcane expertise to ensure that the Redguard would remain unconscious for a good while still. Even then, there was always the chance he would come to prematurely anyway.

_Oh, Shadya. The risks I'm willing to take for you. I hope you find it in yourself to at least be thankful._ He glanced up to find her standing with her hands on her hips, legs belligerently wide, scowling. He sighed. _None too likely, that._

"Alright," he said, standing up. "He'll be right as rain once he comes to."

Shadya nodded. "Good."

_No "thanks"?_

She nodded at the gate. "This way?"

_Guess not, then._ Merard nodded. "Aye. That way."

Shadya went to rattle the gate. "It's locked."

Merard walked over to the guard, kneeling to pat him down. And just as he guessed, he soon produced a key. He then went on to undo the lock. A bit tight, but the right fit.

Shadya frowned, regarding the unconscious Redguard. "I dunno," she muttered.

"What?"

"Hope it'll go smoother from now on. This didn't exactly start out well."

"Oh, not to worry." Merard beamed at her, swinging open the gate. "I've a very good feeling that it will be a short search indeed!"

* * *

Shadya flinched as the incensed Merard hurled a blazing orb against the wooden door of a tall wardrobe. The door exploded into splinters.

" _Goddammit_ where is the damned thing!" he fumed.

They had spent at least a good hour rummaging through the Court Wizard's quarters. Merard had kept having these _hunches_ , inspired by the memory traces that he'd picked up from Calcelmo's mind or somesuch, but it sorely seemed as though those were doing sod-all for him. So far, not a single whiff of any precious gems. And they'd ransacked each and every one of the many chambers in this damned wing of the palace, this here personal bedroom of Calcelmo's twice now.

Chagrin was painfully gnawing at Shadya as well, though she had to keep hers under wraps, faced with the enormity of Merard's frustration. At the moment, there was simply no room for her emotions.

But they were undeniable. Worry, anxiety, and, yes, budding anger were rapidly making home within her breast as well. Could it be the old codger of an Altmer had been craftier than they'd given him credit for? Maybe he had sensed that this stone was more valuable than they'd thought, and had found a fool-proof hide for it, one that no one but himself could possibly guess? Might he have somehow even shielded the knowledge within his own mind, as though anticipating such a deeply unforeseeable infraction as Merard had perpetrated? He had, after all, been around the block a few times, several centuries in this world as he'd had. Could he have—

_Wait a minute!_ Abrupt comprehension, then. Thinking back to those frustrated, tooth-grinding moments of listening to Merard and Calcelmo drone on and on. One particular subject matter they'd briefly touched upon . . .

Suddenly Shadya had a pretty good idea of where to look next. And it wasn't here, for certain.

"Merard," she said.

"Unbelievable!" he growled, hefting up a four-poster bed to shatter it against the wall. "That crusty fucking leprechaun! If I hadn't killed him already . . ."

"Merard!"

He spun, face contorted with rage. " _What_?!"

She waited for him to calm. "If you're quite done wrecking the place?" She had to admit, though, there was something about his fervor, not to speak of his brutal strength, that made the sight of him at the moment not all the way repulsive to her. Not at all, actually _. In fact, most . . ._ zaji.

_Focus, you!_

Merard scowled at the husk of bed, as if the hapless furniture was to blame for all his ill fortune.

"Well?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "I'm done."

"Alright, then. Well, I just had a thought."

He shot her a chary glance under his eyebrows. His black hair was matted with sweat against his scalp.

"I've a pretty good idea of where the thing might be. If you care to listen, that is."

* * *

It seemed so very obvious now. So much so that Merard could not help but feel deeply ashamed at his earlier outburst of temper. Completely unacceptable, that. All control of his own mind, gone in a flash. Overtaken by sheer blind rage, the need to destroy.

Lesser oversights had seen mages sent spiraling into the abyss of their own psyche, on a road culminating in utter, irrevocable self-destruction. And not the good kind, either.

_Let's find you a scourge, shall we, so you can properly flagellate yourself. How's that?_

He stopped at the entrance, closed his eyes. The voice had a point, this time. What was past was past, no matter how recent, and now he needed to gather himself once more so that he could take this charade to a satisfactory conclusion.

Bottom line was, thinking back now to his conversation with the late Court Wizard, it suddenly seemed so clear to him where the gem was hidden. A divulging detail that Calcelmo had dropped almost unawares. Perhaps a touch embarrassingly, it had taken the eavesdropping Shadya to point this out to him.

Opening his eyes, he realized he had unconsciously descended the flight of stairs to the Treasury House. A flicker of disquiet. _Never mind that!_ He promptly slid over the large, u-shaped counter dominating the middle of the main room, adroit again having changed back into his own clothes. Going over, he knocked over a candlestick, and the pewter bowl holding apples went clanging onto the floor. In two strides, he then loped up the set of nine stone stairs leading to a gate, behind which loomed a sturdy safe. He jammed the tip of his dagger into the lock mechanism, then a lockpick. A particularly secure lock, this one, but after about five seconds of gentle but precise probing, he heard a satisfying click accompanied by a smooth turn of the mechanism. He slid the gate aside and went to work on the safe. The lock on that one was about the same level as the gate; yet with this one he snapped one lockpick, followed by a curse under his breath.

He was letting the anticipation get to him, he noted with disapproval.

Finally the heavy safe door came open with the soft groan of hinges. Merard's ensuing smile was a voracious one. The safe was overflowing with precious stones of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Now it was simply a matter of finding the right one.

And so to work he went.

Some quarter of an hour or so anon, a very quiet Breton slowly stalked out through the gate. Had anyone born witness to the restrained promenading, they would have readily decided that the silence surrounding it was a remarkably ominous one, and would then have no doubt proceeded to clear as far away from the man as was possible and in as short an order as the laws of physics permitted.

It was not there.

A deep, dark, and measurelessly cold rage took ahold of Merard as he quietly studied the tips of his boots. At the moment, he was afraid to let his eyes linger on anything else, as that which he next saw would most certainly be object to a most vile bout of rage and destruction. This, now, was a moment as close as any he'd had so far when he threatened to come apart at the seams. So very close, now.

_Don't you_ dare _to fold on me now, you—_

A soft sound broke through the extremity of his amassing ire, and his head snapped round. A silent, rhythmic hissing sound coming from the deeper chambers. The Treasury staff. They not only worked here, but claimed their home in the living quarters built at the back. Dedicated folk, one might say.

How unfortunate for them.

Unable to form a single cogent thought, Merard unsheathed his dagger and started toward the sound.

Some minutes passed, and he once more returned to the main room. Cleaning his knife with a handkerchief, he returned it to its scabbard. Dropped the stained cloth onto the floor. Everything was completely quiet now, including his mind.

_There, did that make you feel better?_

Not really.

Time to think once more. This was another dead end. Despite her perceptiveness, Shadya had been wrong. Perhaps, Merard thought as he scaled the stairs leading to the door, she'd have another suggestion.

_She'd better!_

Opening the door, he bristled against a frigid gust of wind greeting him. He stepped outside into the night's darkness.

And found Shadya gone.

* * *

The guard's sneezes ringing behind her, she hurried up the wide staircase with the eerie Dwarven metal sentinels standing their eternal watch. Invisible once more and wearing nothing besides her small messenger bag, Shadya couldn't get this done quickly enough. After all, despite Merard's assurances of the sturdy quality of the invisibility spell—she still tingled all over from when he had cast it over her—she didn't know when it would crap out and leave her naked and helpless—and quite humiliated—in the hands of a bunch of bored and doubtless ill-tempered guards. And in the case of at least one of them, bearing a personal grudge against her.

For, much to her initial frustration, she had belatedly realized there had been a considerably more convenient way into the Keep—a door leading straight from the Hall of the Dead to the cavern holding the entrance to the Nchuand-Zel. Now, if only she'd not been so squeamish and taken the time to study the accursed hall! But in any case, she'd noted the door when following Merard, and put two and two together later. This time, at least, things would be easier. The single guard watching the door she'd knocked out cold, and the rest would not know anything was awry. But she'd better take care clearing out from the premises before that one came to.

Reaching the landing, she was glad to see no dogs about. Her biggest source of anxiety, then, swept away. Could be the pooches were currently being prepared for tomorrow's banquet of hound haunch. She scuttled back to the Jarl's chambers, looking over her shoulder once more at the door, then pressed in.

The room was silent, the soft purl of the water, the slow and heavy breathing carrying down from the Jarl's bed dais, and the crackle and hiss of the ebbing fire—someone might soon be here to stoke it!—made for a soothing, droning ambience. Shadya felt a wave of tiredness, which she combatted with a weak regurgitation of skooma. Her repositories were running down. Just enough to see her finished here.

She scaled the stairs up to the dais and stopped for a moment to study the Jarl's slumbering form. Graceful even in her sleep, if with that added touch of innocence people seemed to work so hard to keep at bay when awoke. And who could blame them?

Faleen seemed restless, having shoved aside her blankets, with her brows knitted and mouth working vaguely.

_Maybe she needs to pee._

An innocent enough deduction, but one that carried a certain urgency. The woman could be stirred awake at any moment, so there was no mucking about. Shadya turned round to face the nightstand at the foot of the bed. And, sure enough, sitting in an open jewelry box, was Faleen's pendant, the one Shadya had briefly noted during the day's meeting. Attached to it was a large jewel, ruby in color and shaped like a slightly malformed heart.

_Well, hello there_.

Shadya's hand shot out, but something stopped it midway. _How did I not think of it right away?_

It had been an almost overlooked point in the two men's meandering and largely pointless dialogue, one where the subject matter of the Jarl had been broached. The palpable darkening in the already morose Court Wizard's manner had struck Shadya with ephemeral curiosity. It had reminded her, then, of other talk on the streets, subject matter which she'd forgotten as inconsequential and uninteresting. Supposedly Calcelmo and Faleen had been lovers once, if only for a short while. This had been in the days before she'd become Jarl and had still played the part of the then-Jarl's housecarl. Theirs had been a clandestine romance, they said; or ostensibly at least, as at the time there had scarce been anyone who hadn't known about it. But then Igmund had croaked and Faleen's new duties had slowly but surely prized them apart.

Perhaps the gem had been Calcelmo's parting gift to her, or perhaps he'd given it to her before, but it seemed their onetime love had not entirely faded from her heart, as she still had kept the thing close to it.

Before entirely unbeckoned and unwelcome emotions managed to cripple her, Shadya stopped mulling over random shit he'd heard vermin spit out on filthy street corners, and seized the jewel, closing it tight into her first. She spun, and prepared to dash out pronto. Before she set out down the steps, however, a muttered word from the Jarl stopped her cold. For a split second, she was convinced that she was caught. She mouthed a curse. Too much time wasted on the irrelevant!

But Faleen yet slumbered. The woman was fidgeting about in her sleep, her brow creased and mouth working harder now. She was mumbling, a word here and there making sense. A bad dream.

With a mental start, Shadya belatedly comprehended the word that had brought her to stop. "Calcelmo."

She regarded the woman's distressed sleeping a moment longer. Couldn't help but feel a jab of compassion.

_He's gone, old lass. Forever gone._

Then she spun around once more, and was gone as well.

Minutes later, she was finally out of the stone abomination, with firm resolve to never again set paw in such a place. She scurried back up the tiers without a single glance around or behind herself, to soon arrive back at the abode that she was squatting in. Quickly through the halls and in the bedroom. She lit a single stub of a candle. Just grab her satchel here, then climb to where her cloak was still stashed under the rock beside the narrow cave, and she'd be ready to—

"So."

Shadya jumped at the voice behind her. Shut her eyes in frustration—so close!—then turned to face Merard Motierre, standing there with his arms crossed. "Merard! What a surprise!"

"Yes," he mused. "Surprise."

"How did you know where I'm staying?"

"Been in this town before, remember? I know it well. I know that this place has been empty for a while, owned by some rich person who can't be bothered to do anything to it. Deduction, Shadya."

"I see."

"Well, you are clever. Speaking of which . . . you made . . . a discovery? All by yourself?"

"Ah, well about that. In fact, I was just about to—"

His hand shot out to close about her fist. Then, slowly but firmly, he prized her fingers open. "And what have we here?"

"I was—"

"Yes," Merard cut in. "You were. But it didn't work, now did it?"

Before she could stop him, he had snatched the gem for himself. Lifted it in front of his eyes to study it in the faint candlelight. Recovering her wits, she made to snatch it back. Merard was quicker, closing his hand around the stone and taking it behind his back. The bastard smiled. Then shook his head with a clicking of his tongue.

"Give it!" Shadya hissed. " _I_ was the one who—" She was struck mute. The index finger of Merard's free hand was suddenly resting on her lips. Then a surge of indignation. _Who does he think he_ —

Merard brought the prize back in between them, held it atop his fingertips. Then, locking eyes with Shadya, he tossed it over her shoulder. It landed on the bedding with a soft thump. She felt the urge to dive after it, but something kept her where she was. Their eyes remained fixed on one another, Merard's hand moved so that the palm rested about the place between her jaw and her neck. A stretch of silence that seemed to stretch on.

Merard was the one to break it. "So what do we—"

Shadya suddenly grasped his head into her hands and pulled him close, almost violently. A flicker of amusement over his bulging eyes.

Then they were kissing. A human and a Khajiit, the latter quite a bit taller than the former, it had its . . . complications. Yet they seemed to be doing just fine at it. Holding onto his head, Shadya thrust her tongue deep in his mouth. Completely overtaken by animal hunger. Merard's hand slid down her back, squeezed around a buttock. Then it continued on to settle in her crack, tips of fingers brushing at her vulva. A rumbled groan worked its way through her.

He shoved her, and she was on her back on the bed. He followed, undoing his breeches. Shadya pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. She let her hands wander all about his muscular upper body, while he finished undressing. Then, both naked, Merard lying on top of her, they were kissing some more. His hand closed around a breast, thumb and index finger squeezing a nipple in between them. Her hand held on to the muscles of his upper back.

A small—a _very_ small, at this point—part of her wondered what it was that she was doing.

It didn't stand a chance.

Merard's hand left the breast to travel south, worked its way between her thighs. Fingers dipping into the moisture in the midst of fur. Another low, feline moan. After a while, he removed the hand, leaving in its place a palpable yearning. He pulled back some, as if to get a better look at her laying there. She got a look of him as well, and was well pleased by what she saw.

Merard was not a large man—a strong man, firm build and musclebound for sure, but not big in stature—but Shadya was satisfied to find, as well as she'd suspected, that he had . . . compensation in other areas. She smiled as she regarded at him there, all battle-ready.

"Well," she finally said, "what are you waiting for?"

Without hesitation, he climbed back on top of her, then entered. A deep wave of pleasure from head to toes. The final trace of the civilized animal, out the window. No one left here but the beast. And she loved it with the whole of her being. No more pretending. Not until—

Thought dispensed with. Acting on instinct.

A deep, loud, feral growl from the bottom of her being. She held tight as he moved inside her. She hadn't felt this sort of good in a good, long—

"Ah!" Merard's hissing between clenched teeth broke her out of her trance. He was wincing, as if in pain.

Her eyes wide. "What?"

"The . . . claws," he managed.

"Oh!" Shadya, in chagrin, retracted her talons. "Sorry!" The intensity of feeling remained, but the content had shifted. Embarrassment now.

A curious look came upon the man then, a sideward smile accompanying the deep flame in his eyes.

"I didn't say _stop_."

 


	38. The Plan

The day had long broken by the time Ariela's eyes flew open. She pulled herself into a sitting position and looked about the guestroom. She tended to have difficulty reorienting herself when staying in a strange bed. This did not happen often, and during the past few days it had been the case one too many times for her liking.

Still, the bed was sure as Oblivion more comfortable than the cold stone floor of a damp, dark cave.

She got up to stretch. Despite feeling well rested, she was mildly annoyed at having slept longer than she'd intended. Judging by the position of the sun, it was about mid-morning. She heard voices downstairs, the thumping of boots on the wood floor, the howl of chairs being dragged across it. Of the voices, Runa's commanding one stood out topmost.

Ariela got dressed, splashed her face in the washing basin, and went to join the others. Everyone was there, including Erik with two of the three men he'd had with him earlier. In addition, there were a Redguard woman and two Nord men she'd not seen before. Most spared the scholar but a passing glance; only Erik gave her a smile as she descended the squeaky stairs.

Runa also picked her gaze up off the floor in front of her, flashed her teeth. "Well, good morning, sunshine!" she lilted. "I trust you slept well?" Instead of waiting for a reply, though, she was soon addressing the housekeeper to tell the woman to bring out the ale.

People were sitting down around the table, breaking their fast. Ariela took a seat as well, grabbing some crispy bacon and baked potatoes from the serving dishes. She also helped herself to a bread roll— evidently freshly baked—an apple, and a cupful of bitter juniper berry juice.

As soon as Runa had gotten her ale, she cleared her throat. "Well," she said, "since everyone's here, I see no better time to start deliberating the day's agenda."

"Yeah," rumbled one of Erik's original men, a large, scruffy mercenary type in his middle years sporting a thick and unkempt black beard, "tell us who to kill this day!" He laughed noisily at what must have in his circles passed for a joke. The others accompanied him with an unenthusiastic little chuckle, as if just to humor him. Ariela considered the man, wondering how a classy woman such as Maren had ended up hiring such a repugnant lout.

Runa herself showed no evident distaste as she addressed the man. "Easy, Roggvar," she said. "You're as quick with your axe as you are with your prick; and in both cases it usually results in naught but a damned mess." That one got rowdy laughter from everyone, including the cruddy man himself—in fact he was bellowing so hard Ariela thought the whole building shook. Even Maren was smiling, though the smile was mildly amused at best.

Ariela, however, felt a little nauseated. Had Runa slept with _him_ too? Though, as she had observed, these were simply the kinds of cracks that these people threw left and right. Despite its crudeness, humor was a sign of some kind of intelligence, right?

"So," Maren said in her even manner, as the cackling died down. "Tell us of your quest."

"Well." Runa grinned. "Might as well cut to the chase." She regarded her audience fraught with a lazy sort of anticipation. "We will be heading to the Sundered Towers."

The reaction of the crowd was a mix of different flavors of stunned. Some gasped, Roggvar groaned, and Erik balled his hand into a fist and hissed, " _Forsworn_!"

A gangly man sitting between Roggvar and Ariela, the other one of Erik's original host, was shaking his head with his eyes cast on the table. "That's suicide," he muttered.

Maren herself looked somewhat discomforted, though her knowing little smile still stayed on, even if a little faded.

Ariela found the reaction of the people perturbing to say the least. These were supposed to be the fierce warriors to protect her? Of course, she did understand their concern, and, truth be told, had she known of their destination, she would have spent the last night doing anything but sleeping. She congratulated herself on her prudence, waiting to hear this till now. The Forsworn, she knew, had become a regular pest around these parts, and from what she'd heard of their fierce reputation, the overall reaction she now witnessed seemed perfectly warranted.

Runa simply observed the shaken crowd with that unconquerable, self-possessed grin of hers. She stood feet wide apart and hands behind her back, like a general addressing her troops. Ariela wondered how much of her composure was genuine and how much of it bluffed. Based on what she'd seen of the woman so far, either seemed possible.

The astonishment shortly turned into grumbling as the people started to argue with each other. Soon the dining room was quite noisy indeed.

Runa placidly listened to the commotion for a while, then raised her hands. "Alright, calm down," she said, but her words went unheeded. She frowned, and the muscles around her jaw bunched. She then drew in a sharp breath. "QUIET!" she bellowed, her voice so authoritative that Ariela couldn't help a start.

When Runa had everyone's begrudging attention, she cleared her throat. "Look, I realize what it sounds like," she said temperedly. "And I also realize that no one's ventured to the Forsworn regions in a long time. Well, at least no one who came back."

"It's suicide!" cried the gangly man.

"Look, I understand your worry; but they're only people."

"They've got Hagravens!" Roggvar barked.

"Yeah, and you've got crabs," Runa replied. "No one judges _you_ for that."

"I see you haven't been talking to the whores I visit," Roggvar said, but the quip lacked in enthusiasm. No one bothered to react this time.

"What prompted you to this madness?" demanded the Redguard, in thoroughly irritated tones.

To Ariela's dismay, Runa pointed a finger straight at her. "Well, Ariela here needs a book. And we're gonna go get it for her."

The Scholar felt herself shrink as all eyes turned to her, looks of anger and disbelief in them. She would have much liked to disappear altogether at that moment.

"A _book_?" Roggvar growled, and Ariela had to wipe spittle off of her face. "I'm gonna have myself killed over a damned book!"

"It's a very important one," Runa explained, none too convincingly.

"Ha!" Roggvar boomed. "It'd have to be a pretty _fucking_ amazing book to be worth my life!"

"Actually," Runa said, gesturing at the bookshelf in the corner of the room, "I'd bet that any tome here would probably be worth more than that, Roggvar."

Another argument threatened to break loose, but Runa was on top of it before it got out of hand. "Listen to me, it's not _just_ about a book!" she said, and everyone turned to listen again. She adopted a sly look as she regarded her audience, prompted by the anticipation she could doubtless read in their faces. "You know me well enough to know I don't go round taking big risks, 'less I think there's something in it for me."

There was a general murmur of concurrence, looks were shared and heads nodded.

Ariela wasn't sure she liked the feeling Runa's expression and tone gave her. Maren by her side was also frowning now.

Runa just smirked. She looked at Ariela and winked, then spoke again. "One word, ladies and gentlemen." She paused. "Gold."

Another murmur rippled across the room, this time with a curious, even cautiously encouraged, ring to it. Once again it was Roggvar to spell out their collective sentiment. "It's always gold, ain't it?" he said. "And Talos knows those For _cursed_ bastards been looting enough so as to surely have collected a weighty fortune in their filthy little hands." Resentful acknowledgements at that. Erik was nodding feverishly. "But what's so special about Sundered Towers in specific?" The filthy man's hesitation was echoed by the crowd. "And even _if_ the savages there had gold squirreled up their very asses, how could we ever get it out of there? I mean, we can't possibly take them _all_!" More assented murmuring and nodding of heads.

"Well, see now, that's the difference between you and I," Runa said. "I say gold, and you imagine glistening piles of metal. But I have a more abstract idea in mind."

Roggvar laughed. "And whatever is _that_ supposed to mean, Runa?"

Runa's smile was still as arrogant as ever, but Ariela thought that she could see that, under her cool composure, the Nord was thinking hard. A slight hesitation shone off her face, no doubt missed by the others.

_She's making it up as she goes!_ she realized with alarm. Looking at Maren, she could see in the eyes of the older woman that she also had deciphered as much. _Oh, brother_.

"Yes," said the Redguard woman to Ariela's left, her scarred face in a sneer. "Elucidate for us the meaning of your words, oh wise one!" The others laughed at that; and though they all clearly were comfortable with slighting each other, Ariela couldn't help feeling some genuine resentment in the air. And little wonder: Runa seemed to spend every waking hour trying to prove to everyone how she was smarter, more capable, and all around better than anyone else. That was bound to alienate folks, even those who may have otherwise been inclined to believe it.

"The gold is not at Sundered Towers," Runa finally declared, drawing a confused reaction from the others. There was a brightness to her aspect now, bespeaking an inner breakthrough in her narrative. Ariela braced herself. "It's in the book," Runa said triumphantly.

The crowd was no less perplexed, nor any more convinced. Ariela was so hypnotized by this mummery she even forgot to be upset. She was just curious now. Where was this going?

"Don't you get it?" Runa burst out. She started walking back and forth, waving her hands as she spoke. "I just happen to know that, in this book, there is forgotten information about not only one, but _many_ lost treasures in Skyrim. Had we that information, why, it could be we'd none of us ever have to take another job as long as we lived!"

The elation in the woman's conduct was nearly enough to convince anyone watching that she really believed in what she was saying—even someone who knew for certain that she was lying through her teeth.

"A treasure map?" Roggvar spat, still disbelieving, yet with a dawning curiosity—or perhaps greed— glimmering in his eyes.

Runa nodded. "In a sense, yes."

"Then how come the Forsworn haven't already gone after the gold."

"Simple, dear Roggvar. They can't read it. It's written in a long-forgotten Nordic language considered ancient even by the ancient Nords. And only Urag gro-Shub can translate it."

"And you think once he's translated it he would simply relay the information to you?"

"Urag is a man of science; he treasures wisdom, not gold. He is also a man of honor, and his word is worth more than a thousand words from the likes of . . . us." She had clearly meant to say "you" but then thought better of it.

There was a general murmur, more or less skeptical but shot through with undercurrents of wary optimism.

Maren spoke then, and she didn't even have to raise her voice to get everyone's ear. "Alright now, let's settle down," she said, and that's exactly what people did. "Let us say that you're right about the book," she said diplomatically, though it was obvious what she thought about the matter. "How were you going to get the book? What is your plan?"

Runa shrugged. "Haven't though it that far yet. I figure we storm in, have ourselves a little skirmish with the loin-clothed lunatics, while at the same time sending one of us to sneak up behind and find it."

That did not sound like a very solid stratagem in Ariela's ears, and Maren voiced her skepticism. "That's a terrible plan," the woman said.

"Yeah?" Runa said, clearly anticipating the reply. "Got a better one?"

Maren smiled. "As a matter of fact, I do."

Runa spread out her arms. "I'm all ears," she said, then sat down on the lid of a barrel.

The mistress of the house now had everyone's undivided attention, and she held it with ease. "There's something I've never told even you, Runa," she began. "See, Madanach—or the King in Rags, as they call him—he and I actually have a brief history together."

Everyone there seemed struck by the announcement. Everyone but Runa. "Why am I not surprised by that?"

Maren shrugged. "You know me so well?"

"So, what: you had a bit of a fling, is that it?"

The gangly man snickered at that but was instantly silenced by a look from Maren. "No, Runa," she said. "I'd rather not go into details here, but what you need to know is that I once, somewhat reluctantly, did him a favor. And ever since, I believe, he's felt something like gratitude towards me."

"Wait," Erik cut in. "Does this have something to do with the fact that you've seldom suffered any trouble from the Forsworn?" His expression was a mix of sudden grasping of an answer to a long-lasting puzzle and of deep perturbation.

"Yes, Erik. That is exactly it. The Forsworn have for the most part stayed out of my way, and that is not unrelated to my so-called agreement with their leader."

Erik slumped back, clearly experiencing difficulty taking the news in, although Ariela couldn't really see what the big issue was. Others had also resumed their murmuring.

"Furthermore," Maren continued, somewhat hesitatingly. "When my original housecarl, Rayya, suffered an unfortunate death at their hands, Madanach personally paid me a visit, regretting what had happened, and convinced me it had been a mistake. It was the second and last time I've ever seen him personally, and I was quite frankly stunned to have him arrive here and bring with him one of his followers to offer as the new housecarl."

After a stunned moment, heads slowly turned toward the back of the room, where the slight Ania was sitting. The woman stood up, smiling her shy smile.

" _You_ were one of the Forsworn?" Roggvar roared, more incredulity than anger in his voice.

You _were a housecarl?_ Ariela thought. The old woman sure did not look a fighter!

Ania nodded. "Yes, it's true," she said. She had the strongest Nord accent that Ariela had yet heard. "But I was getting about ready to change my lifestyle. Life outdoors ended up suiting me worse than I had thought."

"All this time!" Erik cried. He shot Maren an appalled look. "You've had one of them under your roof all along!"

Maren's expression darkened as she regarded the handsome man. "Erik," she said, her voice lowered. "I'm aware of your personal feelings, but watch your words. You've known Ania this whole time and know her for a kind personality. It makes no difference about her past."

Erik drew breath to say something further but was stopped by Maren's uplifted finger and hard look. "Not. Another. Word," she said, and Erik slumped back. Ariela could see that he wasn't finished, but was intimidated enough to bite his tongue.

"Well this is all inconsequential," Runa said, standing up. "So the kindly little lady we all know and love is actually a wilding—big deal! It won't get us one whit closer to that book."

Maren's expression brightened back up. "See, that's where you're wrong," she said. "Ania here is going to help you get it."

Runa raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And how is that, exactly?"

"If I may, madam," Ania broke in, speaking in her small yet surprisingly audible voice.

"By all means," said Maren.

Each pair of eyes were now on the small Nord woman, most of them still trying hard to get used to what they were looking at, as if they had to readjust their whole image of her. To Ariela, she still looked pretty much the same: completely harmless.

"It is true, all that the lady said," Ania started. "And I apologize if some of you feel betrayed by this revelation." She looked at Erik, who averted his gaze, at once sullen and embarrassed. "But there was never any reason why this should be discussed, even if it was never really a secret. It simply never came up. What you need to understand is I was very young when I joined the Forsworn, and was young still when I left them. And I would have left anyway, but then Madanach offered me a chance to come live with mistress Maren here, and I was more than happy to take it."

"So you've cut your ties with them?" Runa asked.

"Well, not exactly," Ania admitted. "I still have friends and family there, so I do see them from time to time." She hesitated. "Madanach and I . . . were lovers for a while."

Runa whistled. "Should have known _somebody_ here has slept with the guy!"

"He's not the evil man everyone takes him for, you know," Ania said quietly.

Erik snorted. "Tell that to the families of the people he's murdered in his mad quest for power!" That comment drew out a vocal rumble of concurrence.

"That's why I left," Ania said.

"Oh, so you've washed your hands clean of it, have you?" Erik went on.

Most heads were nodding sullenly, and the general mood was turning discordant. Maren frowned deeply.

"And you know, just last year—" Roggvar started.

"ENOUGH!" Maren roared, and this time is wasn't just Ariela who jumped. Those facing away from the woman had to turn their heads, as if to check that a dragon hadn't just entered the room.

She, however, just as quickly retreated into her usual composed demeanor, the picture of calm. "We're not here to bestow judgement upon Madanach's reign. And even if we were, it would not be Ania on trial. Who here has never been involved in anything they later deeply regret? Who has never in their life committed a single condemnable act?" The crowd was silent as Maren let her unrelenting gaze wander upon it. "Anyone?" She grunted softly. "I thought as much. Well, then you listen well and keep your mouths shut, unless you have something of value to add to the matter at hand." She nodded at Ania. "Go ahead, dear."

"Thank you," Ania said. She eyed her audience. "All I really have to say is that I may still have Madanach's ear. I could quickly ride ahead and try to contact him. I may be able to talk him over to hand us the book in question, provided he truly doesn't have a clue of its true significance."

"And how do you that know he doesn't?" asked Roggvar, though not without giving Maren a cautious glance.

Ania shrugged. "He was never much of a reading man. I might probably be able to convince him that the book has nothing but academic value. He might be inclined to believe it."

_That's because it's most likely the truth_ , Ariela though, though she of course kept it to herself. This new plan now forming sounded a lot more promising to her than anything proposed thus far.

There was that murmuring again, but Ania's proposition elicited no further criticisms. Everyone was stealing glances at Runa, waiting for what she had to say. She regarded the woman with her arms crossed and a suspicious squint to her eyes, chewing the other side of her lower lip, as if trying to decide whether to trust the small woman or not. However, her pose had a certain feel of theatrics to it, Ariela thought, and there was that gleam in the corner of her eye that said that she was basically agreeing with the plan, and just did not want to appear too eager.

"So," Runa said finally, stretching the word. "What you're suggesting is you ride ahead of us, have a little talk with the King in Rags—suggest to him he cough up the book, all the while dressing the issue as a simple scholarly expedition after some insignificant-to-most tome of utter academic boredom—and then ride back to us to certify that the course is clear. Then we meet with the savages and they'll simply hand over the book in all camaraderie, and it'll be as simple as that. Did I understand this correctly?"

Ariela couldn't help rolling her eyes, both at the needless spelling out of a plan an infant simpleton would no doubt have grasped by now, and at the ostentatious hesitancy of Runa's rhetoric.

"Yes, that is what I'm saying," Ania replied simply.

After a few seconds, Runa nodded. "Alright, I'm down with that." This was met with a general hum of agreement.

Ariela had to hand it to the woman: despite her own feelings, Runa was clearly adept at steering the general mood of the people she worked with. Sure, her style of address would never have worked with an audience of lofty and self-important academics, but in her choice of circles—the straightforward yet highly suspicious warriors—it was just the right approach.

"Splendid," said Maren, smiling. "I trust you will be able to leave soon?"

"I'll leave right away," Ania replied.

"Let's first make sure," Runa said, "that we all agree on what the plan is."

"Fair enough," said Maren.

After a quick briefing and forming of an—admittedly—sketchy plan, Ania was ready to leave on her madcap gamble of a voyage. And as soon as the woman had gotten on a horse and ridden off, the rest started to ready themselves for departure as well. They judged it wouldn't take her too long to come back—" _If_ she comes back," Runa saw it fit to remark—so they could pretty much leave as soon as they got their gear together. The road to their destination was supposed to be straightforward, so they ought to experience no trouble rendezvousing with the erstwhile Forsworn upon her return.

It took no longer than an hour for them to assemble their weapons and necessary supplies, and then they were ready to embark. Ariela mounted her mare; after a bath, some rest, and some special medicinal liniment she had—embarrassingly enough—obtained from Maren, sitting in the hard saddle was nowhere nearly as uncomfortable as it had been. And once her initial doubts had faded, she actually felt confident. They could do this, and no one would have to get hurt in the process.

All who had attended the morning's assembly went along: Erik, Runa, the Redguard woman, Roggvar, the gangly man, and the two Nords Ariela somehow appeared not to be able to distinguish from each other. Everyone currently residing in the manor. It certainly seemed a sufficient posse for a non-confrontational expedition, or even if they ended up having to defend themselves against an unforeseen force.

Maren bid them farewell, though Ariela would have felt better had she agreed to accompany them. She had, however, declined on account of having put that kind of life behind her for good. Ariela couldn't judge the woman for that, even if she'd had the impulse to judge it a shoddy excuse at first. Maren had, on the other hand, agreed to—even insisted on—letting her entire current guard go with them. "You may need them more than I will," she'd said, which Ariela was slightly discomfited by.

As they departed the Manor district, and as Ariela gazed back one more time at the distancing woman, she felt as though she was leaving a safe-zone of some kind. As if they were trading the protectorate of a great benevolent soul for an uncertain and hostile world in the yoke of an unknowable dark, malignant presence just beyond the horizon.

On some level, she knew this was true.

* * *

**Note: On the off-chance that anyone reading this missed part 2 of "The Prize", both parts are now melded into one.**


	39. The Awakenings

" _Wake up!"_

The sharp whispered words ripping through Quintus' head brought him back into this world with a jolt. It was not exactly a peachy reintroduction. He winced at the sharp pains shooting all across his aching muscles and bones, then squinted against the harsh midmorning sun assaulting his eyes, sending waves of throbbing pain toward the back of his skull and bringing about further waves of nausea up and down his body.

Burying his head in his hands, taking deep, shuddering breaths, he struggled to regain his wits. He felt as though he'd spent an eternity in darkness, accompanied by brutal, baleful nightmares that now faded away in the background without indelible trace, without memory.

Yet, with all the confusion and the disoriented haze fogging up his brain, a silent certainty still grew in the back of his mind. Something was different now. Permanently so.

But he knew not what.

Infernal noise prompted him to open his smarting eyes again. Up the slope, dozens upon dozens of crows had gathered to feed. The bodies of men, beast, and those that would defy that most sacred of delineations dappling the hillside provided for a nice, plentiful fare for these screaming winged calamities. Those perching higher in their hierarchy were vying for the best bits, while those lower down skulked patiently for their turn, periodically going at each other to be the first of the last. Pecking order in action.

Despite the wealth of death in the world, there never seemed to be quite enough for those who fed on it

As for the carcasses, the horses were farther along, in many parts not more than jutting ribs bound in tattered, bloody hide. Ruins in flesh. There was more difficulty with the two-legged creatures, protected by armor and clothes as they were. But the birds were slowly getting there, with the patience of desperate necessity.

Swept by nausea, Quintus closed his eyes again, rubbing at his face. There was something, wasn't there? Something he needed to remember. Something important.

A flash of depthless, crimson eyes. Containing, it seemed, all the malice in the world.

_You are mine!_

He convulsed, gagging ineffectively with nothing coming out. The throbbing of his head was increasing. Such irony, should he expire here now after surviving last night's terror!

A new noise penetrated his misery, then, and his eyes flew open. There, up the hill, the crows were behaving more nervously, the intonation of their cawing rising to an agitated note. And soon Quintus understood the reason for their unease. One of the corpses, it seemed, had begun to shift.

A cold dismay gripped him. Were the dead rising? Was this what it had all been about? Acquiring more material for some undead army. And, most of all, was the noble Chief Inspector to serve as their very first meal?

The slowly rising corpse groaned, and at that moment something told him that his fears had been baseless. The crows had not touched this one. This man was in fact still alive.

And, furthermore, Quintus knew the unfortunate bastard.

"Meric!" he crowed feebly.

The man raised his pain-twisted visage, squinted at Quintus as though trying to understand exactly what it was that he was looking at. Then he cried, "Sir!" Clambering up on wobbly legs. His own sword was still sticking out of his middle, blood flow seeming to have ceased or at least slowed down considerably. With all the gore so utterly staining the front of the Sergeant's once-spotless uniform, it was a touch surprising there was any left in him. Ironically, it seemed that the blade was the only thing still keeping the man alive.

"Sir," he repeated, "thank . . . thank the gods you're . . . you're alive!" A strange racking convulsion quaked the man, and it was only a second after that Quintus realized it was a sob. "I'm so sorry! I should have seen it coming!" His knees buckled and he fell, barely catching himself with his hands.

"Don't try to talk! Can you make it here?" It only passingly occurred to Quintus that just perhaps he was the one in the better condition to move.

Without another word, Meric scrambled back up and then very haltingly staggered his way down. Quintus eyed the man's struggles with an almost alarming degree of indifference. Or, rather, he would have found it alarming had he presently possessed the necessary faculty for such self-reflection. Would have certainly found it so . . . once. In the past.

Maybe.

The last pained paces Meric conducted at a crawl, head hanging weakly with strings of red-hued drool hanging off his lips, sweat and blood knotting the hair against his scalp. He was, all in all, a most distasteful sight. Quintus recognized this, but only from a distance. And that distance, he felt, might as well have spanned all of the unmeasured universe. As if his observing self was forever severed from the feeling, experiencing one. Excepting one, slowly growing sensation, as yet so ephemeral as to barely register at all.

And in any case, there was precious little in him presently to take heed of such subtleties.

Sergeant Meric was bawling in earnest by the time he reached Quintus. He slopped down on the ground, sapped of all energy. Heaving long, ragged breaths that each seemed to cause him great agony. Then, after some minutes of something like convalescence, he lifted his head and fixed Quintus with a beseeching gaze torn by anguish. He seemed to be struggling for words.

Quintus shushed at him, reached out a hand to lay on top of the man's filthy head. "Say nothing. Come on." He inched just a little closer, pressed the head on his lap. The urine staining his breeches was unlikely to bother the Sergeant at this point. It did not him. "Hush." He slowly stroked that matted hair. Revulsion, he knew there should have been some.

Another sob racked Meric.

"It's going to be alright," Quintus crooned in a calm yet vacant tenor. Meric's hot head pressed against his crotch. That growing something in the back of his mind that he was vaguely becoming more aware of, increasing. Under the head's heat, he felt . . . an awakening. Blood-soaked tears flowing down to blend with dried piss. And he was getting harder.

The hand stroked on. The young man wept. And Quintus felt on his lips a burgeoning smile. Despite everything, all seemed to somehow fall into place.

"It's going to be fine," he murmured. " _Ju-st fine_ . . . you'll see."

* * *

Some half an hour to an hour later, Quintus staggered back to the road, to the turning point through which their convoy had passed some hundred or so years ago. His haversack flung over one shoulder, body aching in every join and muscle, wet clothes chafing against skin, his soul rough as though dragged through leagues of gravel. And feeling . . . light.

Where they'd left the cart, nothing. Not a sign of horse or driver. Chances were, they'd left, escaped. Returned to the Hall of the Vigilant. What the driver had imagined to be safety, no doubt. Quintus smiled briefly at that, though no further deliberation on the subject as much as crossed his mind. He walked on, driven and with a purpose.

He'd need a ride. That much was clear.

And sure enough, as though summoned, after but some hundred measly paces of ambling down the road, the trundle of wheels brought his head round. A cart pulled by a single horse lumbered on the otherwise empty cobbled road. He stopped, set himself in the middle of the road and spread out his arms. The carriage came to a halt, and he girded the suddenly skittish horse to address the driver.

The driver in question turned out to be a chronically unimpressed looking fellow, pushing on his later middle years; though his undoubtedly harsh and mostly cheerless life of hard labor might have simply deceived the eye regarding his age. By all appearances a tough and stringy man, the mouth above the sharp chin set into a long, withered face seeming drawn permanently down, as if a lingering aftereffect of some fit of illness. Though, Quintus surmised, the sickness ailing this one was in all likeliness nothing but life itself.

He had always harbored a most sour contempt for men such as this.

But he set such sentiments aside for the moment. "Halt! I require assistance," he announced. "I have been assaulted!"

The driver studied him quietly for a while, then spat. "Yeah?" he said. "And?"

Quintus blinked at the man's laconic reply. "What in Stendarr's name do you mean _and_?!" When there was no reply, "And I am Quintus Lex, the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculatus, a most high ranking agent of the Emperor of Tamriel. " _And_ ," he stretched, "I demand that you offer me any and all assistance that I may require of you, and waste no time about it, either. Is that clear enough for you?"

The driver squinted against the sun that shone at his back. "Aye," he finally said, not seeming terribly impressed by Quintus' assertions. He spat. "Ass- _salt-_ ed, y'say? Well, I be darned if tha's anythin' new." He made a sound most likely a cough. But then Quintus though he might just as well have laughed, the ratty bastard.

The driver looked him up and down with what the Chief Inspector, to his growing ire, construed as derision. "Been struttin' round dressed all fancy like, an' all by yousself, then? Lil' wonder!"

"No, you oaf!" fumed Quintus. "I was obviously a part of a larger company! We were ambushed!"

The man eyed him suspiciously. "An' y'sayin' they jus' done let y'go? You an' only you?"

"What can I say?" Quintus spread out his arms. "I'm a lucky man." He decided to the best of his ability to hold back his quite naturally arising belligerence.

The man's eyes then lingered on the blood-stained front of Quintus' tunic. "Reek-wirin' a healer as well?"

He glanced down. "The blood's not mine."

The driver raised a single eyebrow, but was smart enough to remain silent.

Quintus sighed. "Look, I need a ride!"

"A ride? Whiterun's right o'er there?" He tossed his head in the direction behind Quintus' back, where the road wended on. And not far on the horizon the hazy outline of the mentioned city could be seen. A perfectly walkable distance away.

"Yes, well," he replied patiently. "I'm sure even you can see I'm in in no prime condition to walk. Besides, I'm not going to Whiterun." He _could_ , of course, walk over there to hire a coach to Solitude, but he had not once in his life been required to pay for a ride, and he was not of a mind to start now. Besides, by this point it was no longer an issue of mere convenience.

The man considered him for a moment. "It'll cost ya."

"I've got money!"

"On ya?"

"Well, no, of course not! I was just mugged for gods' sake!"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Thought y'said you was 'ssaulted?"

"Is there a difference?" Exasperated, Quintus threw up his hands. "Look, are we now discussing semantics here?"

"Don't know nutthin' 'bout no semen-ticks," the man said. "All's I know fo' certain's you needs pay if y's hankerin' fo' ride. Now, 'less I see sumthn' glitterin' immy hand an' soon, this here conv'sation's drawin' to a swif' close."

Quintus sighed, seconds from blowing up. "Look," he said equably. "I can assure you I've got plenty of money to pay you once we reach our destination. The High Queen herself, _whose esteemed guest I happen to be_ , can vouch for me. And I can assure you, swear it by all the gods, that should you cooperate, you will be most sumptuously rewarded. You can buy yourself a new cart and a whole team of horses with the reward I can bestow upon you!" To his surprise, Quintus thought he wasn't even exaggerating. Much, at least. After all, what was such money to him?

Yet the driver still did not seem too impressed.

There was absolutely no reason at this point why Quintus would have needed to keep cajoling this fool. After all, there was bound to be another bumpkin right around the bend to give him a ride with no protests, without him needing to promise the gods' damned moons!

But some things meant more than money. As much as his pride had already been wounded, to be turned down now would be . . . no, it was simply unthinkable. He sighed anew. "Alright. Let us say, then, that if by some odd chance I should find myself unable to pay you your due— _which will not happen_ —I promise that I will _work_ my debt off. To do whatever chores you may assign me with." Now, _that_ was absolutely laughable!

The driver was not amused. He regarded Quintus with unyielding gray eyes. "I don' see wha' use y'could poss'bly be." After a while, however, he spat out of the downturned corner of his mouth, straightening in his seat. "But I jusso happen t'be in a good mood." He tossed his head. "Hop in."

Stunned and more than a little bit bemused, Quintus clambered into the back of the carriage, in the midst of cabbages and sacks of flour.

"I's a bi'tight back there, bu' try'n squeez' in!" the man bid, then without warning flicked the reins, and the cart jolted into motion.

Quintus had just managed to cram his aching behind on a hardwood seat so as not to topple over. He couldn't have cared about the discomfort if he'd tried. Even the bizarre exchange with the uppity driver and his own absurd promises of recompense seemed utterly unimportant, and as such soon faded into oblivion. He crammed the haversack between his feet, leaned arms against his thighs and buried his face in his hands. He needed rest. Perhaps he would simply sleep.

A thought occurred. How fared Cristus Farseer?

And as an immediate answer, his mind conjured a flash of an image of the said man. The lined, big nosed visage was twisted in a grimace, as though in severe agony. The image winked out, then, replaced by a jumble of disjointed impressions. Terrible screaming. Scorching skin. Flesh torn from bone.

And, just as soon, it was gone.

Quintus lifted his head, blinking at the blue sky. On second thought, sleep could probably wait.

* * *

On some level, Shadya realized she was dreaming.

At first she was climbing up a moderate rocky slope. The surroundings she did not recognize, though what she could say was that they were breathtakingly beautiful. And even the climbing did not feel at all heavy. In fact, she felt so light; happy, even. She was free, though she could not say what had happened to make her so. She knew that the future awaited, and for once it looked good. She was feeling hopeful. And she was horny as Oblivion! And that too was about to be satisfied beyond what she could even dream of. Such joy awaited her! She could have cried.

Then, suddenly, it all changed, and she was back underground, beleaguered by all the undying Dwemer nastiness around her. And she was looking at Calcelmo, down on his knees, bleeding profusely out of his torn throat. He then fixed his dead eyes on her and snarled. It was all her doing! _All her fault!_ Then, unexpectedly, Jarl Faleen walked from behind her dead old lover, her hate-filled eyes also locked on Shadya. Tears were running like a flood down her cheeks. Tears of blood. She held a knife in one hand, and Shadya knew that it was meant for her. She needed to pay for what she'd done, and there was nothing she could do to evade it. She could not escape, she was trapped. Nevertheless, gripped by panic, she was backing down, trying in vain to assure this murderous woman of her innocence. Her words came out as nothing but garble, and the Redguard weeping gore drew ever closer.

And Shadya's retreat soon came to an end as she ran into something. No, not something. Some _one_. It was Merard. Her initial relief turned into abject horror as she took a look at his eyes. They were of unfathomable depth, both black and crimson, a pair of spirals leading into the Void. And brimmed with such malice and wrath. Terrible scarring ran all cross his face and down his neck. He held on to her with an iron grip, and though she tried to escape, was completely helpless against him.

He then opened his mouth, and she gasped at the sight of his fangs. She screamed but no sound came out. And as Merard sank those teeth into her neck, the pain coursing up and down her body was nothing like she'd ever even imagined before.

_Soon, you too, shall be MINE!_

Oddly, it wasn't until after her eyes had already opened, after some half a dozen heartbeats' worth of confounded staring at the high granite sealing above, that Shadya jolted. A second of confusion, until remembrance came. With it, any trace of her dreams vanished utterly.

She winced, then, for causes both physical and mental. Her body ached all over, mostly from the unfamiliar and most unnatural activity of creeping through a narrow cave. The soreness between her legs, on the other hand, originated in a wholly different source.

Speaking of mental causes . . .

She turned over to her side, to find the naked Merard laying there. On his back, hands folded on top of his hairy chest, regarding her. "Morning," he said, a ghost of a smile flickering on his lips.

"Morning," Shadya muttered. It was almost a question. _We did . . ._

_You sure did!_

She briefly shut her eyes, resolved to act as though nothing at all was the way it shouldn't be. "Don't you sleep?" she asked once she opened her eyes again. Nothing untoward showed on the man's countenance.

Now an earnest smile cracked it, and she felt a peculiar sting. "I sleep," he replied. "But probably not as much as most people. Don't seem to need it as much. It is, I believe, one of the effects of Magica."

"Uh huh." Shadya rubbed at her face, then faced him again. "What _is_ magica, anyhow?" she asked.

"Well," Merard said in a drawl. "There's no clear-cut answer to that one. A simple way of putting it is saying that it's the energy used to cast spells. But that, of course, explains nothing. My own tutor, Alabistair Adrognese, simply called it Will. But not the same thing, mind, which we commonly take to be will. Something deeper, stemming from the essence of our very being. From our souls. But I've no idea how much traction the man's theories have, not to mention whether or not they're true. The more standard explanation is that Magica is some sort of residual power from Magnus and the other gods when they made their nary escape from Mundus after its contentious creation. But then what does _that_ mean?"

Now, normally Shadya would have not hesitated to show her contempt for such useless and purely abstract hogwash, especially when it was the first thing to come flooding at her right after awaking. But this time she just grew thoughtful. "I never got into magic myself," she said. "I don't even know if I could. It must be . . . nice." She felt like a little kit saying such things. But she didn't care.

Merard turned over to his side to face her, absently traced a finger down her jawline, her neck, his hand coming to rest on her side. She suppressed a shiver. "My tutor would always say that, deep down, everything we ever do is an act of magic. He attempted drafting a treatise to prove that for once and for all, but he never finished. The manuscript was buried with him."

"His specific wish?"

Merard shook his head. "No."

_Oh._

"What magic is," Merard continued, "at its basis, is realizing that your will, your true Will, is much more intimately connected with the world than you think. And that _you_ , at least in theory, have as much power to change _it_ as it has to change you." He smiled. "It's empowering, to say the least."

Shadya considered. "Change the world, huh?" With such power, could you also change yourself? Was there such magic, to enable you to turn yourself into something you could better be happy with?

_Such foolishness!_

"To a degree, yes." Merard said. Almost as if answering Shadya's thoughts. "The world is much less incontrovertible than it seems on the face of it, much less solid, even much less _real_ than we tend to think. The mind and the language that shapes it define and limit our perception of reality, which then reflects right back into matter. Probabilities, when coupled with corresponding action, collapse into realities, soon to become inevitabilities. One attuned to the language of creation itself can to an extent manipulate those odds. To paraphrase Alabistair Adrognese, creation, be it the one of Mundus or of existence itself, is not a singular event, one that took place once long ago. Rather, it's still continuing to this day, in our every thought and deed, through the choices we make. Magic is then but the ongoing act of creation in the hands of mortal beings."

Shadya considered. "I shall simply pretend I just understood all that."

"Don't sell yourself short," Merard replied.

"Then what of items invested with magic? How does that work? How can a staff be made magical so that it can be used as weapon? I never understood that."

"A staff," he explained, "can be invested with magic, because it's made of mind."

Shadya snorted. "What are you on? It's made of wood!"

Merard looked at her oddly, then, mouth turned sideways in an almost . . . _pitying_ smile. " _Everything_ is made of mind."

She felt a surge of irritation faced with such patronizing. Besides, what was that even supposed to mean?

Merard, eyes locked with hers, caressed her face. "I offended you."

She removed the hand. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No," he said with a faint smile, "of course not." He then rolled back onto his back, hands tucked behind his head.

Peeved, Shadya also turned on hers _. What am I doing here? Everything's going all wrong! We've got the jewel but we're clearly at an impasse._ Both of us _can't have it. And instead of figuring it out—fighting over it or, goddammit, anything at all— we just fucked. And then fucked some more. And I won't deny it was good . . . ah, fuck it, it was goddamn amazing! But that's neither here nor there. The problem still remains, and here we are, casually shooting meaningless shit and pretending like everything's just honky dory. "Everything is mind," my furry ass!_

_You know what your problem really is, Shadya? You could never see what was always right in front your eyes. And that, I'm afraid, will be your demise._

She frowned. Without Skooma, her mind certainly seemed to run away with her—

_And when you finally die, your SOUL SHALL BE—_

She squeezed her eyes closed tight, focused her will to shut out her own thoughts. Connecting with the preverbal animal side that always lurked just behind her eyes. The silence, it was a true blessing.

When she returned to normal, there was something within her that had not been just some moments ago.

Cold terror.

_There's someone inside of my head,_ she thought, _and it's not me._

Suddenly desperate for some sort of connection, to not be alone, she turned to Merard. She laid a hand on his chest, brushing the dark hair with his fingertips. Partly healed scratches crisscrossed the skin. He turned his head to face her, expression a touch surprised. That uncertainty, however, soon vanished.

"Do you—" she began, then shook her head. "Hmm, I dunno."

"What?"

"Nothing. It's . . . stupid."

"No go on, I won't judge you."

Her eyes narrowed. "I never said that worried me."

"What then?"

"Some folks . . . among Khajiit especially it seems, mystically bent, even superstitious people that they are, say that everything . . . that everything happens for a reason. Do you believe that?"

Why did she feel so vulnerable in the magnetic pull of his intense gaze? So laid bare.

Merard was silent for a moment. "I believe that everything that happens has a cause."

Shadya's weak smile seemed to weigh sorrowful on her lips. "That's not quite the same, is it?"

Merard shook his head. "No."

A moment's hesitation, her looking in each of his eyes in turn. "What are we doing, Merard?"

"Lying in bed, Shadya. Talking—"

"Stop. You know well what I mean."

"Aye. I know."

"And?"

"And . . . I don't know."

"That didn't help."

He shrugged. "Was it supposed to help?"

"Merard! I'm being serious."

"And I'm not?"

She stared at him beseechingly.

He then raised himself on one elbow. "Look, for the most part, people are always looking on the outside for someone to come and provide solutions to messes that they have themselves created."

Shadya scowled, propping herself up as well. "What, all this is _my_ doing now? You've got some—"

He grinned at her. "I knew you'd take it like that."

"How was I _supposed_ to take it, you bastard? You're egging me on!"

"I'm not," Merard replied. "My point is, when people expect to find some prescribed way for dealing with whatever they have to deal with, or some fated path laid out in front of them as if by an act of some god, they miss out on the real chance to create their own reality. Eager to give away their chance to forge their own path, their own destiny, they are as though paralyzed, and more often or not end up making all the wrong decisions. Or, perhaps worse, no decision at all, in which case their lives ever remain unchanged. Thus they waste what potential they might have, or at least the opportunity to learn about if they actually had it or not."

Shadya blinked. "Meaning?"

Merard grinned. "What's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

"To punch you in that stupid, grinning mug of yours."

He nodded. "Good"

" _Good_?"

"Good. Now, I go." He paused, growing more or less serious. "We split the loot."

Shadya snorted. "Good luck splitting a precious gem! What, you gonna bite it? Besides, the Nightingale will split _you_ if you try and present him with the mangled jewel!"

He regarded her, pensively chewing at the inside of his mouth.

"What?"

"What if I told you that the Nightingale need not ever know?"

" _How_?" A welter of emotion seemed to well up in Shadya. All in conflict, yes, and by the time they rose to the level of conscious scrutiny, so tangled together as to not make any sense. Yet, they mostly carried the flavor of dread.

Merard look thoughtful for half a moment, then held up a halting finger. He sprang up off the bed and bent down to pick something out of his bag on the floor. Shadya stared at his well-built behind and felt an uninvited surge of lust. She was tired, she rationalized, and did her best to squelch the sudden instinct. This was not the time.

_When is it ever_ not _the—_

Merard hopped back onto the bed, holding something in a closed fist.

"And what would—"

He lifted a finger to his lips. "Hush. Close your eyes."

Shadya frowned. "What, are we children? Just—"

"Just . . . please. For me."

When a brutal, utterly unpredictable and unfathomable killer with seemingly molten iron instead of blood running in his veins— _and a regular_ demon _in the sack besides_ —looked at you with such childishly innocent, imploring eyes, well, it was damn well near impossible to say no.

Shadya aired a deep sigh. "No," she said.

Merard scrunched up his face, again like a child. "Alright, fine," he huffed. When he opened up his fist, her eyes slowly went wide.

"Now . . . what . . .?"

"A perfect replica, Shadya."

"How . . . where did you . . ."

His grin was a pleased one. "The Nightingale himself. Actually, he wanted me to replace the original with this one. As a decoy."

Shadya frowned. "Now, why would a man like him care even if Calcelmo did realize he'd been robbed? Not exactly terribly threatening, feeble ancient scholars."

"I have no idea, Shadya. I don't question my employer's motives. I simply deliver."

"Except . . . when you don't, right?"

He eyed her soberly. "It's never happened before."

"And you think . . ." She hesitated. "That there's a first for everything?"

"There's also a last for everything," he replied after a stretch of silence.

Now what did that, again mean? _Damn this bastard_ —

Merard said nothing more. And, when after some two dozen heartbeats of swelling, gravid silence he still hadn't spoken, Shadya sighed. And to settle her damned bounding, jarring heartbeat down, took it upon herself to finish what had been started here. She rubbed her eyes. "Let me just clarify this. You meet with the Nightingale, present him with the counterfeit gem—in fact _simply give him back exactly what he gave you_ —and he pays up, nice and generous. You leave and we rendezvous to find someplace else to sell the real jewel, share the spoils, and live happily ever fucking after, like a pair of hapless nitwits in a cut-rate piece of shit fable even little kids ain't dumb enough to take seriously?" She didn't really say the very last part out loud. At least she was fairly certain that she had not.

"Yes," Merard conceded. "That is precisely it."

"Sounds simple enough." She felt as though the intended sarcasm in her words lacked in conviction and thus lost its effect.

"It is not complicated," Merard replied, confirming that he'd not taken the statement the way it had been originally intended. "But it is dangerous, Shadya. Extremely dangerous. If he has any inkling that he's getting swindled . . ."

Shadya shook her head. "There's no way you could stay in Skyrim after pulling such a stunt. Could you?"

"It was not my intention to, no. I take it that was your goal, to leave?"

"Yes. That's exactly right."

"Back to Elsweyr?"

She snorted. "Not a chance!" At Merard's raised eyebrow, she smiled. "I'm done with the known. I will go somewhere where I've never been before. As far away from everything familiar as possible, where no one would find me. Maybe even Black Marsh."

"Friend of humidity?"

She scowled. "Alright, perhaps not Black Marsh. But you get the idea."

Merard was nodding, thoughtful. "Yes. I do." His stare seemed to turn inside for a moment, then refocused on her, different somehow, like something awakening. "We could go together." It was a simple statement bordering a question, though he didn't look particularly as though he was waiting for her to answer.

Shadya fell silent, thinking. She wanted to get out of this life. Just, she'd always pictured that she'd do it herself, with the skill and guile of her own spirit. In fact, she still had all the intention to. She was used to being alone, hadn't really even though there was another way. Yet . . . something about this man, something that she could relate to; despite everything, something she could not bring herself to understand. Well, yes, there was the sex of course, in no way a negligible part of the equation, but in addition to that, something deeper. An understanding she'd never seen anyone else share with her. What he'd said about their roles, as thieves. Always in the middle, in between.

Never belonging.

Belonging. She'd never experienced that, ever. And for the longest time, had not even wanted to. Was this why she'd clung so hard to being a thief? Could she even picture giving that up? Reaching for something other than this feeling she'd grown so used to. This . . . emptiness.

It now seemed, very much so, that there was such a possibility. She might not even need to go about it all alone. She might accept that prospect, even welcome it.

However, one thing was certain. She did not—could not—trust this man.

She sighed once more. "I know someone. The one who hired me. He has offered a generous payment." Not to speak of her savings, which Yolanda held for her.

Merard nodded. "And can no doubt thus be persuaded to be even _more_ generous."

Shadya bristled at that. "Merard," she warned. "I will not let you hurt him. This won't work if—"

"Whoa, there. Who said anything about hurting?"

" _Or_ threatening!"

"Ah," Merard replied. "I see. Sweet-talked?"

"Merard!" she growled.

"Fine! Fine! I was never too good at that anyway . . . "

_You hardly need to tell_ me _that_! Shadya ran a hand over her face. "Look . . . how should I say this . . ."

His eyes twinkled. "Say it with a smile?"

"Merard," she said with a sober regard. "I don't really trust you."

"Fair enough."

" _Is it_?"

"It is. I don't really trust you, either."

"Ah. I see. Hardly a coup forged in the heavens, then."

Merard shrugged. "I only ever trust myself."

"Same here," said Shadya. _Can I truly say that with a clean conscience?_

"Well, then," Merard said brightly. "I'm having a good feeling about this already!"

* * *

An incensed voice somewhere in his head sought ground, tried to reach him, but was drowned out by the sheer immensity of his will. Adrognese had trained no fool. And no weakling, either.

And there was no denying that he felt as though he were walking on thin ice. At the moment, however, he did not mind it.

They were regarding each other in silence, and it was Shadya who first broke it. "So we're really gonna go through with this?"

With what? This complete reversal of plans? Abandonment of his life-long mission? His duty to his father, and his undying debt to this man calling himself the Nightingale?

What about his revenge?

Funny, how it all suddenly seemed so unimportant.

"I think so, yes," he said.

After another stretch of silence, Shadya, wearing a hint of smile, reached out her hand to trace a finger between his pectoral muscles. "What was it again, everything we do is magic."

"Something like that," Merard replied. He was suddenly feeling nervous. He never felt nervous. He swallowed, and his throat felt dry. "It all comes down to balance," he said in a rasp.

"Balance?"

He cleared his throat for a more commanding, measured voice. "Activity, passivity. Change, stasis. Giving, taking. Destruction, healing. Forces both masculine and feminine, entangled, entwined, within each of us and in the way we respond to the world around us. They make, as Adrognese would have said, the web of causation in which we forge our destinies. Character, the web spun out of all our myriad deeds, virtuous, ignominious, insignificant. And character _is_ destiny.

"Mages, then, must need take these things into consideration as they bend and shape the world around them. They have to, as their every action, or rather the intention behind each such action, sends a ripple across the web of which they are an integral part. Any ill-considered act can just as easily come back and bite them somewhere along the line. And the bigger the change, stronger the magic, the larger the ripples. They can just as easily sweep the wielder away. So, to keep the importance of balance in mind is to understand self-protection. Throw off the inner balance too much and madness is assured." Had, it now occurred to Merard to ask, Adrognese finally failed to take heed of his own advice? "Even destruction magic needs some touch of its opposite in the background. The principle of healing, of mending. Perhaps especially destruction magic, for destruction, the very extreme of masculine energy, can become a kind of a drug. A fever of nearly . . . yes, nearly _erotic_ nature. The thrill. It can easily turn against you."

Such caustic, violent power unavoidably connected with the innate self-destructiveness sleeping within each soul. For reasons not entirely explainable, this instinct, this desire for one's own death, was shared by one and each living being with evolved enough a soul, a conscious will. The will to die. In fact, the great Dunmer mage-scholar Thanatos Balmoran had written quite extensively about this, and Merard had pored over those writings in his delicate youth.

Though, truth be told, in the end it was all too theoretical for him. Merard Motierre had, after all, ever been a man of singular intent.

In the past.

_If you think you can just_ —

Shadya broke in so that he did not need to once more silence his father's voice. "Are you, by any chance, done with the lectures?" she asked.

He blinked, surprised. He'd not even realized it, but he'd slipped into a strange, quite uncharacteristic mode of verbosity. Then, as though to continue on the theme of uncharacteristic behavior, felt a surge of embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't realize I was blathering." _What is happening to me?_

"Yes," Shadya said. "Well, you were. Now, about magic . . . and the . . . _erotic_?" Wearing a fiendish smile, now, she caressed his pec. Then, half unsheathing a talon, she gently pressed its tip against the nipple.

The masculine and the feminine . . .

Merard's initial wince soon turned into a smile. Intent on reciprocation, he closed his hand around Shadya's breast and gave a caress, then grasped her nipple between fingers. Pinching, hard.

Her wince remained as such. "Ah! Careful, now! I'm not . . . like you."

"Sorry," Merard said, smiling like he didn't really mean it. He then leaned forward to make up for his infraction, took the nipple in his mouth, rolled his tongue all about it, and was much pleased at Shadya's moan of pleasure.

She, however, soon pushed his head back. Glancing down his form, she smiled. Pleased to witness his . . . awakening. She slid her hand down, to grasp the base of his cock, now fully hard. She proceeded to bury her face in his neck, licking, kissing, nibbling. Then moved lower, past his chest, his abdomen.

He settled his head down on the pillow as she reached her destination. A bristly sensation. Merard smiled.

 


	40. The Voyage

"Another thing I don't really understand about these damned Forsworn—"

_Oh, brother_ _,_ Ariela thought, airing a deep sigh. It wasn't as if Erik was going to notice.

Despite having by this point pretty much decided that the Nord was just about the most fetching and in his way the most intriguing man she had ever laid eyes on, she had to admit he had an untoward tendency to ramble. And if there was something for him to complain about, apparently, he would complain on and on. And on.

And _on_.

They had only ridden for about an hour, but the scholar already felt she had a fairly good grasp of the comely warrior's likes and dislikes. And that was particularly true about the latter. The Forsworn, it seemed, were his pet peeve. How fortunate, then, that they were the exact people they were on their way to meet! Though the rest of his companions had pretty much remained quiet—not that there had even been many openings in the deluge of Erik's verbal diarrhea—their silence—even Runa's, it had to be noted—had not worked as any kind of deterrent for him to continue his disgruntled monologue. Ariela squinted her eyes against the high and bright noon sun and braced herself for yet more bellyaching.

"—is why they claim to be fighting for 'the liberty of the Reach' and, at the same time, seem permanently cooped up in their hillside hideaways. I mean: why not, you know, actually _do_ something to forward their objectives? It's like they _enjoy_ living like savages!"

Ariela decided she might as well pitch in. She rode a few paces behind Erik, so she had to raise her voice to be heard. "Maybe they do," she suggested.

"Furthermore," Erik went on, not showing any sign of having even heard Ariela's contribution, "ever since after the Civil War, they've been real pests around here. Far from some political freedom fighters, and more like a bunch of bandits: robbing innocent, hard-working people, killing some in the process! The fact is, they've been so bad that they've practically chased all the ordinary bandits out. And when I was young I thought bandits were bad!" He spat on the ground, livid. "Little did I know, I say. Gods be damned, little did I know!"

Ariela wasn't sure anymore who Erik was addressing his rant to. It had all started with her asking him an innocent question about his life here. A little less than an hour later, and this was where it had gotten them. She was glad it wasn't directly her to whom he was steaming. Not that she would have called his evident passion an entirely off-putting quality . . .

_Stop that!_

"Poor bandits, so unjustly robbed of their livelihood," Runa said.

Erik either chose not to hear or, even more likely, was too worked up to be able to. "But what's absolutely the worst," he steamed, "is the way they've managed to poison the minds of people's children to become part of their so-called 'rebellion.'" He looked around, wide-eyed. "I mean, the nerve, right?"

"Horstar the Smith's daughter went with them," Roggvar chimed in. "Shame. A voluptuous lass, that one." He gave his shaggy head a rueful shake.

Runa gave the untidy man a mirthful glance, but kept silent.

Erik was spurred on by Roggvar's anecdote. "See! That's what I mean."

"Well, _I_ think people have the right to choose their own affiliations," Runa said.

"Oh, _children_ , you mean?" Erik replied indignantly.

Runa snorted. "Oh, come now. Horstar's daughter was seventeen—plenty old to decide for herself!"

Erik didn't reply anything straightaway, doubtless aware that this particular path or argumentation was bound to wind up in a cul-de-sac. So, after a brief pause, he changed the approach. "Sure, you have a point: everyone can make the decision to become a thieving, murdering lout if they should so choose. I salute you for your pristine reasoning!" Ariela could practically taste the bitterness of his tone.

Runa merely rolled her eyes.

After a sulky silence, Roggvar was clearly seeking to lighten the mood. "I'm actually surprised that the old bastard is even still alive!" he barked. The man obviously meant Madanach, Ariela realized after a second's confusion. "I mean, he must be like, what, a hundred by now." His eyes took on a lecherous gleam. "I just wonder if he still gets it up to nail all those pretty, scantily dressed savage-girls like they say he does. And why wouldn't he, as he is their lord and commander!" The unkempt warrior bellowed a ragged laugh, and doubtless would have nudged the nearest person with his elbow had they been close enough. "I bet you that's why Ania was in such a hurry! Am I right? Huh?"

Overbearing hilarity did not exactly ensue. Ariela noticed Runa shaking her head in quiet amusement, and despite the obvious crudeness of the big man, a little ghost of a smile played at her own lips. The company she'd been keeping was no doubt bringing her mind down to the gutter.

Erik, however, was none too beguiled. "The _Dark Wanderer_ take that man!" He spat, then added, "And his shriveled little old-man prick!"

Even though he probably not intended his outburst as humor, it nonetheless aroused raucous rounds of laughter in the company. The powerful image evoked by Erik's curse made Ariela wrinkle her nose internally, but chuckle externally. Not that it was by any objective standards funny, but it had to be judged in the context. Mainly, Ariela supposed, it had been Erik's earnestly indignant tone that had done it.

"I think," Runa said between cackles, "that the Dark Wanderer has more juicy targets to go after than Madanach's wrinkly pecker."

There was more laugher at that. Even Erik let himself smile a little now.

"What's this about a 'dark wanderer'?" Ariela asked after the revelry subsided.

"Oh," Runa said, rolling her eyes. "It's nothing. Just a stupid fairy-tale they use to scare little children into submission."

"Uh, uh," Roggvar said, shaking his finger. "It has its basis in reality."

Runa snorted. "Yeah, just like the stories of your great heroic deeds. According, at least, to yourself."

"You're wrong, Runa," Erik chimed in. "The difference is, these things actually happened."

Roggvar looked a little disgruntled but didn't start arguing. Instead, he turned to Ariela. "Yes, well; in any case, the legend of the Dark Wanderer is based on a series of murders that took place around the Reach back during the war."

"Yeah," Runa said. "A bunch of folks went missing, then turned up floating at the downstream of Karth River, their throats slit and, in some cases, their skins charred to a crisp."

Ariela felt nauseous. "That's awful!"

Runa shrugged. "Sure, I suppose. If you're not used to that kind of stuff. Anyway, so of course folks started to talk about a ghastly figure seen around the murder scenes. A dark, shrouded being with glowing, red eyes. You know, the usual. Said he rode a horse as dark as the night itself with fire blazing out of its nostrils. Said the Dark Wanderer, as they now called him, was sent from the deepest of forgotten depths of the Void, to take away the souls of the wicked people who had allowed the unholy forces of both Ulfric's Stormcloaks and Madanach's Forsworn to disrupt the divine peace of this sacred land."

Ariela's head hurt in the face of such garbled folkish superstition and confused thinking. Then, as usual, she felt a pang of guilt on account of her own blatant elitism. She put her scholarly sensibilities behind her. "Red eyes?" she said. "Sounds like a vampire."

Runa shook her head. "Nope. They thought so too, but supposedly no bite marks were found. Most likely it was some nasty posse of bandits, using the confusion brought by the war to cover up their tracks. Surely they didn't mind the sinister stories told about them. Kept the heroes and the onlookers at arm's length, it did." She shrugged. "In any case, their reign of terror was short lived. They kept the area in throes of terror for a few weeks, then split. Got their fill, I reckon."

"You sure it was bandits?"

"Well it sure as shit wasn't some boogieman from beyond! And given that the victims were mostly robbed out of their gold, it would seem likely, yes."

"Mostly?"

"Some small change was occasionally left behind."

"Picky robbers," Ariela observed, drawing a shrug from Runa.

Roggvar laughed. "Bandits are a dignified bunch. There's no honor in robbing pennies!" He laughed again, and Runa rolled her eyes.

"It's no laughing matter," Erik said, his face solemn. "In my hometown of Rorikstead, the renowned war hero and then-leader of the town Rorik, alongside with his partner Jouane Manette, were found dead in their bed. Stabbed multiple times they were, as if dealt in a heat of hateful passion."

"So, the Dark Wanderer was behind that?" Runa asked with a little smirk.

"Well, it was certainly speculated upon," said Erik. "Though the deed was generally accepted as simply an ordinary murder by some or other outraged person who did not accept the two men's sinful lifestyle. Towns small in size can also be very small of mind in their conservatism. Partly the reason, I suppose, why I didn't want to stay there. Not to say that Rorik and Jouane weren't generally well-loved; but they were the exception."

"Well, apparently," Runa said with a snort. Erik gave her a glare but said nothing.

"What do you mean 'sinful lifestyle'?" Ariela asked.

Erik shrugged. "Well, they hadn't been officially married by a priest of Mara," he said. "Some folks feel very strongly about such things."

"Enough to _murder_?" Ariela asked, stunned.

"You'd be surprised."

"Well, _I'm_ surprised you don't blame the Forsworn for their murder too!" Roggvar barked.

"I wouldn't discount it." Erik replied curtly.

No more was said of the matter, nor of much any other matter, either. Ariela didn't mind this, as she'd heard enough of quarreling and carping for a while.

The scenery became increasingly more barren as they progressed toward the east. The terrain got rockier and rockier and trees grew sparser and sparser, and those few there were, were firmly evergreen. Stunted grass grew in individual patches here and there. Ariela enjoyed the rough scenery; it made her feel _not_ at home. This was Skyrim, it was a cold and unforgiving land, and she had left her kin behind to have an adventure of her own.

She was aware of being a bit callow, knowing the real danger which was never too far away from a traveler at these parts—or really at any parts, for that matter. But she looked at Erik, Runa and the rest, and the sight of them filled her with reassurance. It might be dangerous, but she trusted her companions. She also trusted Maren and her good reputation among the Forsworn. She even trusted, to some extent, that odd little woman Ania, in her ability to talk Madanach around to hand over the book and not give them any trouble.

Still, as they soon passed Fort Sungard, marking the beginning of the Reach proper, she knew a pang of uneasiness. The region had been on the verge of chaos for nearly twenty years now, and lawlessness and mischief ran rampant. Even the seasoned warriors of her entourage seemed to feel a certain apprehension about entering here. She could observe changes in their manner. The changes were subtle, to be sure, but present nonetheless: small, barely perceptible signs, such as increased glancing about, nervous fidgeting, and an overall sense of tenseness. And then, of course, there was the gradual ebbing of the quips and idle chatter. Even Runa looked a bit ill at ease. If anything, _that_ unnerved Ariela.

Peering up at the fort, located on a tall hilltop, she felt reverse height vertigo. Fort Sungard had changed occupants several times during the years, alternating between being captured by the Forsworn and then again recaptured by the Imperials, these days being once again in control of the Empire. She wondered how long it was going to last until the place changed occupants again. If Ariela squinted, she could discern soldiers walking back and forth on the walls. The way they carried themselves, even from this distance, somehow struck her as unsoldierly. _Perhaps the pressure of being surrounded by the Forsworn is getting to them_ , she thought passingly.

The road was empty, which lent the whole scene an eerie quality. So far, only two people had passed them during their whole ride, a pair of riders clad in dark hooded robes coming down the road from the direction of Markarth. Ariela, like the rest of her companions, had scarcely paid the pair any mind. And now they had the road to themselves.

Erik slowed his horse to allow for Ariela to pull up by his side. He gave her a sheepish sort of look, followed by a shy smile. He then looked away for a while, as is trying to set his words right. "Look, uh, I'm sorry if you've in any way been upset by the things I've said," he started, turning to look at her. "It's just that, well, I feel very strongly about this whole Forsworn business. You know, having lived in these parts my whole life and witnessed it all."

Ariela smiled at him. This was a strange man. He could be all suave and charming at one moment, then all resentful and outraged—and frankly quite oafish—at another. But right now she thought she was seeing him as his most earnest. And the abashed, even pleading, look in his blue eyes chased away any remaining annoyance that she might have felt for him. So he actually cared about how she viewed him? The thought stirred a gentle, warm surge within her. "I understand," she said. "I think."

She didn't really, of course. Her kin had never been plagued by a bunch of downgraded wild men. But she _had_ witnessed the fury of covetous academics.

Erik gave her an examining look. "You know, you sort of remind me of myself when I was young."

Ariela felt a disquieting sting, as a reminder of their considerable age difference was not what she wanted to be hearing right now. She hid her feelings behind a smile. "Oh yeah? I seem to get that a lot these days. I believe Runa said the same thing when we met."

Erik raised a brow. " _Her_? I doubt it. I don't imagine her ever being so . . . innocent."

Ariela frowned. "So that's how you were?"

"Oh yeah!" Erik said, laughing. "You should have seen me. Soaked behind the ears, the son of a farmer who'd never even as much as been in a brawl, but Oblivion-bent to become a fierce mercenary. So serious I was, not exactly quick to smile. I know it's hard to believe now. _Erik the Slayer_ , I'd call myself."

In spite of herself, Ariela let out a girly little giggle. Erik the Slayer! Now _that_ was almost as silly as Maren Dragonheart, though the contestants of that particular wrestling match were pretty much on par.

"I would have never made it to actually fulfilling my aspiration," he went on, "had it not been for Maren, who just happened to pass our town and out of the kindness of her heart provided me with my first armor. My father could never have afforded it." There was a warm light in Erik's eyes as he spoke. "Then, about a year later, she comes to see me, wanting to hire me as her personal guard. Been working under her ever since."

" _Under_ her?" Ariela asked, then immediately felt embarrassed.

Erik replied with a laugh, if not a slightly uneasy one at that.

She fixed him with as serious an expression as she could. "I wasn't joking, you know."

He looked like he could not decide whether she was trying to pull his leg or not. "I do what I'm told."  
 _  
"Any_ _thing_ ," she asked with a cocked brow.

"Hey!" Erik exclaimed, concealing a smile underneath feigned outrage. "She's a discreet woman." After a pause he added, "Just like her daughter."

Ariela snorted louder that she intended. "Runa! Well now I've heard it all!" She laughed.

Erik, on the other hand, betrayed no sign of amusement.

Runa herself rode a couple horse lengths ahead of them, having a desultory conversation with the Redguard woman, her posture as upright as ever. _Discreet_ was perhaps not the first word to came to Ariela's mind, but it was clear Runa did have a certain forthrightness about her. She would never stab anyone in the back to forward her own position or to fill her own pockets, even if she had had to fool her companions a bit to inspire them to join her quest. But surely that was different? And she was most definitely a lascivious drunkard, but did that really matter either? Such, it seemed, was the warrior way, and Ariela felt as though she was just beginning to learn how limited the, frankly, prudish world view she'd been ingrained to have was. Just because some folks followed a radically different code of chastity from the practically monkish people she'd grown up with, didn't mean they couldn't otherwise have steadfast morals. Take Erik for example—

A discomfiting thought crossed Ariela's mind. She hesitated, but then turned to Erik. "Have you and Runa ever . . . uh . . ."

A puzzled expression came upon the man's handsome features, his frown deepening. Then he scowled, his nostrils flaring. "Ech, no! No! Gods!" He gave an exaggerated shudder. "Runa was barely in her tenth summer when I first got to know her! She's been like a little sister to me; I would have never . . . eww!"

Ariela turned her head away, flushing. "Sorry," she muttered. "Just occurred to me to ask."

Once he got over his initial reaction, however, Erik steadied himself. "No need to be sorry," he said, though not sounding all that sincere. Obviously her ill-advised question still chafed at him.

Ariela would have once again liked to have vanished off the face of Nirn. Would Erik ever be able to look at her again without recalling her callous inquiry into whether he'd ever boinked a woman who was practically his little sister? The thought gave Ariela a panicky feeling. _Idiot, idiot!_ She thought she could almost hear a malicious laughter reverberate somewhere deep inside her.

"Don't feel bad, Ariela," Erik said in a soft voice, as if having read her mind. It was evident, though, that he himself couldn't really find the right words, which made the situation all the worse.

As luck would have it, however, it was at this precise moment that Runa called for them to halt for a refreshing break. The band drew rein and dismounted, and those in need went their way to the side of the road or to the shrubs to relieve themselves. Ariela also really needed to go, and was thankful of this opportunity to get away from Erik for a while.

The bushes around were mighty meager, however, and she felt bashful. Runa and the Redguard woman—Ariela still hadn't caught her name, and she didn't exactly come across as easy to strike a conversation with—may have had no problem flaunting their feminine parts for all the word to see, but she needed some privacy. She spotted a place a bit higher up, with an outcropping of sizeable boulders to provide her with sufficient concealment. She secured her horse's reins to the trunk of a thin tree and stalked up the hill.

Once finished with her business, she came back down to the road to find Erik and Runa talking in hushed tones. This made her apprehensive. Had he told Runa about Ariela's earlier blurt?

As she approached, Runa shot her a glance and stopped talking. She flashed the scholar an amicable smile. "Better?"

"Much," Ariela said, deciding to pretend as if she hadn't noticed the apparently reticent nature of the interrupted conference.

Erik gave her an illegible look, and she resisted the urge to look away. "We were just talking about you," he said.

"Oh really?" She tried to sound as calm as she could, while wrestling with a rising sense of dread.

"Yeah," said Runa. "Now, don't take this the wrong way, but we were just wondering. . . " She glanced at Erik. "Well, are you sure you want to stick around the whole way? I mean, there's no guarantee we won't get into trouble."

"Ah," Ariela said, at the same time relieved but still harboring a vestige of paranoia that this was somehow a repercussion of what she'd said. This, of course, was utterly silly.

"You don't have to be a hero on our account," Erik said. "If you have any misgivings, you should hang back." So, was he that eager to leave her behind? Then he added, "I, of course, could stay behind with you."

A phantom of smirk played at the corners of Runa's mouth.

"Oh," Ariela said. Well that _might_ have changed things . . .

But no. She hadn't come this far to chicken out now. She shook her head. "That won't be necessary," she said. Then, to Erik, she added, "I appreciate the offer, though." She tried her best to give him a coquettish, buoyant look, but, lacking virtually all practice, had no idea how it actually came across. Based on a tiniest flushing in his face, though, it appeared as though she'd succeeded. This gave her the boost of self-confidence to turn to Runa and say, "I refuse to be intimidated by these hill-dwelling lunatics," in perfectly equable tones.

Runa raised her eyebrows, but it was unclear whether it was for being impressed or simply amused. Instead of clarifying her feelings about it, she simply nodded. "Got it. All the way it is, then."

"Are you sure?" Erik asked, looking apprehensive.

"Yes, I'm sure," Ariela lied. She shyly laid a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks."

They locked eyes for just a few heartbeats, but the moment felt like it stretched into eternity. It was finally shattered by a snort from Runa, which resulted in Erik giving the woman a cross glare. Ariela simply pretended not to notice.

"Hey, look who it is!" Roggvar croaked.

And just like that, the moment, for better or for worse, was shattered. Everyone's eyes followed Roggvar's, ahead down the road where a small figure on a large horse was approaching fast.

Roggvar grinned. "Well, I'll be damned. They let her go with her skin and all intact."

Ariela gave the man a disgusted glare, but he paid no mind to her.

"Let's just see if she doesn't tow the savage horde right behind her," said Runa.

The Redguard woman snorted. A pensive frown creased Erik's wide brow.

A minute passed in silence, and they could soon hear the hoof beats of Ania's steed as she rapidly drew near.

"Well," Erik said. "I don't see no Forsworn."

"Famous last words," muttered Runa.

Roggvar snorted.

Not for the first time, nor for the last, Ariela found herself wishing she hadn't made a fresh habit out of acting more tough and confident than she felt. She suddenly missed terribly her small study, her cozy little guild of stuffy academics. She even missed their endless petty bickering. But they were all half a continent away, in some other world entire.

 


	41. The Forcursed

Not another word passed through the mob of weathered warriors and one willowy scholar until the small woman on horseback unmounted before them. Ania slid off nimbly and dusted her clothes off before unhurriedly striding to meet the waiting companions. A satisfied little smile lingered on her lips the entire time.

"Well?" Runa demanded.

Ania beamed. "Well, I've got good news. I met with Madanach."

"Yeah?" said Runa. "And he gave it to you good, did he?"

The retort earned her a vigorous shove on the shoulder from Ariela. The Nord's expression was one of feigned bewilderment.

Ania had clearly perfected the art of ignoring Runa's jibes. " _And . . ._ he's agreed to hand over the book with no trouble." She was visibly pleased with her diplomatic triumph.

Erik raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're saying we're not expecting any aggression from him whatsoever, should we approach the Sundered Towers?"

"He gave me his word."

Runa and Erik snorted in unison at that. It was plain to see they did not share Ania's optimism about this so-called guarantee.

Erik looked hard at Runa. "So, what do you think?"

Runa shrugged. "Could go either way, I suppose." She clawed at her chin. "But I reckon we don't have much choice, as turning back after coming this far would be strictly against my principles."

Runa didn't strike Ariela as someone inclined to turn back from _any_ distance once she'd gotten a goal in her sights. And despite the woman's adopted disposition of caution, there was that gleam in her eye that bespoke a very particular brand of thrill. It was either aroused by the potential handsome ransom—no matter how phantasmal—in her mind, or it was precisely for the unpredictability, the danger and the element of gamble, that now lay on their plate. Most likely, as so often, it was both.

Erik gave a resolute nod. "So we proceed," he said, though he was still obviously apprehensive about the whole thing.

Barely had the man finished his sentence when a whooshing sound pierced the air. This was followed by a snap as a thin shaft of wood hit the cobblestones, then skidded on the road and came to a halt on the ground between them. At the end of the shaft was the very familiar sight of a sharpened piece of metal.

Ariela's gaze found Runa's as they looked up from the arrow at their feet. "More friends of yours?"

A second later, there was another hiss. This one ended in a grunt, and suddenly a shaft was sticking out of the left shoulder of the lanky man—the one from Erik's original posse; Olav, Ariela believed his name to be—who swore in pain. "What the—" the man begun, but was silenced by the following arrow taking him in the throat. The rest of his intended exclamation came out as a garbled squeal, accompanied by a gush of blood. He then collapsed.

After a moment of stunned silence, everyone simply staring wide-eyed at the wheezing warrior dying on the ground, they looked at each other in alarm.

"An ambush!" Erik screamed. "Take cover!" In the same breath, he lunged at Ariela. He crashed into her, tumbling her onto her back and following right after.

As they lay there—her on her back and him on top, leaning on supporting hands on each side of her, faces inches from each other—Ariela suddenly noticed the yellow rings around the iris' of Erik's blue eyes for the first time. His breath smelled sweet. "Well . . ." she said. "Hello."

Erik flashed a charming, coy smile and then, as he remembered the circumstances that had prompted this quite unorthodox impromptu embrace, immediately regained solemnity. "Come," he said, "let's get to cover." He got up into a crouching position, hoisted Ariela to her feet with a strong arm tugged under hers and dashed them into a hiding place behind one of the boulders standing at the side of the road. He peered carefully in the direction whence the arrows were coming. "Runa!"

"Yes, Erik?" came Runa's reply from close by. Likely she was hiding behind the rock just beside this one. "How can I help you?"

"Can you see them? What are they, bandits?"

After a short silence, the answer came. "I can't see a good gods-damn!"

Ariela felt her heart sink. If there was something worse than getting arrows fired at you, it had to be not even being able to see who was doing it.

"Oh, wait," Runa said. "There's Elone." That was no doubt the name of the sullen Redguard woman. "Yo, Elone! Can you get a look at them? Bandits?"

A while passed again before the woman's voice responded from a further distance. "I see them, alright," she said. "Forsworn."

Erik gnashed his bright, straight teeth.

"Did you hear that?" Runa asked.

"Yes," Erik answered, his jaws clenched. "I heard it."

The Nord woman gave a dry laugh. "Whoulda thought, right?"

Erik squeezed his battle axe with both hands, knuckles white. "Well, there's only one way to get out of this."

There was the faint ringing sound of Runa unsheathing her blades. "The only way to settle things so that they _stay_ settled."

Erik turned to Ariela, who by know was breathing rapidly, her heart beating like the hooves of a charging destrier. "Whatever happens, you stay here, alright?"

She nodded compliantly, staring at him with wide eyes. She couldn't get a word out with all the excitement mulling her insides. Although, looking at Erik with his intense yet concerned eyes and his muscles tensed up for action, she knew it wasn't all for fear, either. She might just have kissed him vehemently there and then, but the moment was quelled by a scream from ahead. Ariela started.

Yet it had not been a scream of pain, but of fury.

Erik stuck out his head to look in the direction of the sound. "There the bastards come!" Without looking back, he lifted his axe, let out a cry and rushed into action.

Ariela heard others letting out their battle-cries as well. Of them all, Runa's scream stood out the most, in that it did not only contain fervor, but a good measure of enthusiasm to boot. Ariela thought Roggvar shared some of that quality with the woman. But not Erik. For him, it seemed to be all about doing what was right. He appeared to take no particular pleasure from violence. That, at least, was what her gut told her, and she tended to listen to what it had to say.

The sounds of metal ringing against metal and the grunts and curses of people filled the air. Ariela dared a peek at the action. She then got her fist look of the Forsworn in their customary outfit: a peculiar armor of leather and fur, that left an unseemly amount of bare skin exposed. Turned out text-book illustrations were actually quite accurate. She counted seven of them, but who knew if there were more. She prayed that they wouldn't turn out to be too many; though at least so far the company didn't seem to have too much difficulty countering them.

To her horror, then, she realized that her horse was still standing in the line of fire, tied to a tree at the side of the road and unable to escape. The poor animal was terrified, rearing and whinnying, desperately tearing at her reins in an attempt to get free.

Ariela felt terrible for the helpless beast. She quickly assessed the situation. She could _not_ leave her companion and faithful mount in trouble, while herself cowering behind a rock. The action was mostly concentrated on melee at this point. Arrows were getting less frequent, as the shooters doubtless sought to avoid hitting their own. Things were happening perhaps a little close to the spot where the horse was, but in all likeliness no one would have the time to pay attention to one lithe woman rushing to her steed.

She gathered together all her latent intrepidity, set her jaw and took a deep breath, then bolted. Keeping herself as low as she could, she nimbly crossed the distance and was soon next to the frightened mare. The horse calmed a bit upon her arrival, ceasing to rear and instead turned her intelligent, pleading eyes to Ariela. She patted the horse's side reassuringly. "There, there," she cooed. "So sorry I left you, girl, but I'm here now." She felt the sting of guilt saying that. The animal's eyes, however, showed no resentment. "Let's get you free, huh?"

Ariela got around to the other side where the reins were attached to the trunk of a slim birch. She started undoing her simple knot. But, as her hands were shaking, it was harder than she'd expected. She tried her best to calm her nerves. An arrow swooshed by a few feet above her head, and the horse started moving restlessly again. "Easy, girl." she crooned, to some success. Finally—after what felt like ten minutes at least but had probably been just a few seconds, and some profuse cussing—the knot became untied.

The horse shook her mane, now freed, and Ariela patted its side encouragingly. "Go on, now. Get to safety!"

But right then, the hiss of a stray arrow was stunted by the dull sound of it contacting flesh. To Ariela's shock, the arrow now jutted from the horse's neck. The animal panicked, whinnying and rearing anew. The sudden violent reaction of the animal sent Ariela on her behind on the hard ground. She scampered back in order to steer clear from the hooves of the bewildered beast. She could then only watch, aghast, as the mare turned round in panic, darting down the road and out of her site. The blood dripping from the neck left a trail in its wake.

Ariela stared powerlessly after the animal for a moment longer once it had disappeared behind a bend. Her risk had been for nothing, and now the poor animal would most likely bleed to death, or, weakened by the bleeding, fall prey to wolves, or a saber cat, or some other predator. She felt tears of anger and frustration start to well up in her eyes but bit them back with acrid determination.

Instead, she switched her attention to the battle. She was faintly aware of her dangerous position, an arrow could take her out at any moment, but she was too worked up to care about it now. Besides, by the looks of it, the Forsworn had their plates full. Ariela's companions looked to be an insurmountable force. Runa swirled around like a dancer from Oblivion, her two blades flying with clock-like precision, finding their way around her foes' defenses, spilling blood and cutting armor. The woman moved as though endowed by a supernatural ability to know exactly when and where a blow directed at her was coming, and where to move in just the right way in order to both avoid falling for a follow-up attack, and to be able to launch a counteroffensive of her own. She was currently fighting three Forsworn by herself, and they looked to be taking a beating, exertion and desperation shining all over their faces. She, on the other hand, wore a big grin on hers.

Roggvar had joined the side of the Redguard woman, Elone, and they were going head to head with two Forsworn. The Nord man whose name Ariela was yet to catch was down, propping himself with one hand, the other one clutching a gash on his side. He was breathing heavily, but did not look severely wounded. Next to him, in contrast, a dead Forsworn woman lay with her belly opened from neck to crotch. That left the last one of their companions, the other unnamed Nord, who was going face to face with a small man, the latter appearing to be taking a beating.

But all was not going as well. Closest to Ariela was Erik, grappling with a particularly crazed-looking male Forsworn. The man, clutching a nasty looking dagger, had managed to topple Erik on his back and was trying to push the knife into his face. Erik had gotten ahold of the wildman's wrist and was holding him back for now. But the pained expression on his face told her that he might not be able to ward off his imminent doom for much longer.

She looked around desperately, but there was no way she could catch anyone's attention to come help the Nord. But help he needed. Ariela felt a sudden panic seizing her. She did not want to see Erik die. Not that she liked seeing anyone die, least of all one of her friends, but she suddenly realized this wasn't the whole story. Now, at this moment, she realized without a doubt that in this very brief time she'd known him, she had taken a more intense liking to Erik than she would have ever thought possible. More so, for sure, than she would be ready to admit to anyone—with one possible exception being the man himself, provided the timing was right.

Such a time, however, might never come. Not if someone didn't do something, and do it quick. Erik seemed to be losing his strength, and that nasty blade was getting ever closer to his beautiful face.

Ariela would _not_ let that happen! She gave her immediate surroundings a furious look about, and her eyes caught sight of a hunk of rock only a little bigger than her head. Without a second thought, she rushed to grab it. To her slight surprise she was able to hoist it without trouble. She fixed an incensed gaze on the savage trying to kill her . . . her . . . what _was_ he to her, anyway?

Ignoring all else, Ariela let out a deep, guttural scream and rushed at the Forsworn with the hunk of stone lifted above her head. The man gazed up at her, just a little too late, just enough for his expression to freeze into a bizarre mix of bewilderment, surprise, hatred, and horror. Then the rock took him square in the face.

There was a crack, and the man fell back, tumbling on the ground with the boulder following after him. In order to keep from joining the Forsworn, Ariela pitched to her left, which caused her to topple right on top of Erik. The man oofed loudly as the wind was knocked out of him. But at least the wind would return.

Worried that she'd hurt him, she rolled off the man. She was then on her back, breathing rapidly and blinking at the wide, overcast skies. The sun was breaking through. For a second there, she nearly forgot where she was. Then, after the initial shock and confusion had passed, it hit home to her what had just happened. She turned her head and grimaced. The man who had just been full of rage and thirsty for blood now lay just there, as still as the stillest of nights. And she knew for certain he would remain just so. Dead. Completely, utterly, irrevocably dead. Never to draw breath again, never to utter another word. And no matter how much time would pass, it would never be otherwise.

_As dead as dead can be. Not getting any deader._

She was dimly aware that she was probably going into shock, and that her thoughts were starting to ramble. But what did she expect? She'd never killed anyone before. Never, ever even entertained the possibility!

_Her_? Ariela the Killer?

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she started. She'd not even realized she had sat up.

"It's just me," Erik said softly, regarding her with concern. His eyes flicked to the dead man and back to her. "Are you . . . alright?"

Ariela nodded. Right now she felt everything had escaped her: words, thoughts, emotions. She stared blankly at the man whom she had just committed her first ever murder for. Why couldn't she feel it? She _was_ in shock, wasn't she?

After a quick scope at the battle ground, Erik gently squeezed her shoulder. "Get to safety, alright?" Then, after a second of hesitation, he planted a soft kiss on her forehead. Where his lips touched, her skin felt numb. Then he was gone. Had there been gratitude in his eyes?

She shook her head, crawled to the side of the road to take position leaning against a large boulder. This time she didn't care if it was safe or not, she just needed a place to sit, away from everything. She buried her face in her hands, but did not weep.


	42. The King in Rags

Ariela was still sitting there with her face in her hands when Erik returned. She had no idea how much time had passed. She looked up, shielding her eyes against the glaring afternoon sun that did not offer much warmth. "Is it over?"

Erik nodded. "How are you doing?"

"Fine, I guess." She looked at Erik's chest plate adorned with splashes of fresh blood. "I take it we won?"

Erik nodded again, then offered Ariela his hand. She took it, and was pulled to her feet. The world around them had turned into a silent place. She wasn't sure she liked it.

Erik studied her, his eyes narrowed by concern. "Are you really alright?"

Ariela attempted to reply with a bright "yeah," but only managed to let out a throaty squeak.

Erik put his arm around her shoulder and tried to look her in the eyes, but she averted them.

She would not cry, not now.

"You may have just saved my life, you know," he said. Ariela found the strength to meet his earnest gaze. "I confess, I'm not sure how to feel about that."

She managed a weak smile. "Yeah? Well, neither do I."

He then embraced her. It was more a hug of comradery than anything else, but she would take it. "Thank you," he said.

"It's alright. You would have done it for me." Her eyes swung to the Forsworn lying on the ground with his arms and legs splayed out, face a bloody mess. Still dead. "I killed him," she said, almost just to hear herself confirm it out loud.

Erik pulled away from her so he could look her directly in the eye. "I know it feels weird, but you did the right thing."

She nodded, looking down at her feet.

Erik raised her chin with a gentle hand, forcing her to meet his eye. "Hey," he said. "It needed to be done."

The tone of his voice was convincing enough, but it occurred to Ariela that he was perhaps not too good at offering consolations, either. But was that what she needed? After all, she was the one who'd committed the act.

Would somebody somewhere miss the man she'd just killed?

She pushed any idea of regret out of her mind. They had been attacked, and had the full right to defend themselves. She looked deeper into Erik's eyes and smiled more freely. "I know," she said, then added, "I'm glad you're alive."

He smiled back. "I'm glad to be alive."

They nearly had what Ariela supposed was called a _moment_ , but it was interrupted by a sound of boots scraping cobblestone. Ariela reluctantly tore her eyes away from Erik.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Runa said, stopping to stand there with her hands on her hips. She was covered in gore, but looked all the more chipper for it. She gave the two a discerning look, a hint of a mischievous smirk on her lips. But it had to be handed to her, she appeared to be exercising a measure of discretion, no doubt having heard of Ariela's act of unexpected heroism. "Am I interrupting something?"

Ariela realized her hands were resting on Erik's shoulders. She pulled them away; some blood stained her fingers and she wiped them on her coat. "No, not really," she said noncommittally.

"I hear you put up quite a show there, killer."

Ariela smothered a reaction of disgust at the word "killer". She tried a nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, I guess so."

"How does it feel?" Runa asked, eyes searching.

"Well, you know."

The Nord nodded her head with an expression of comprehension on her face. "How are you?"

Would everybody be asking her that now? If so, Ariela thought she'd not be able to take it. "I'm fine," she said curtly. "But I'm afraid my horse is not."

Runa raised a brow. "Your horse?"

Erik by Ariela's side was looking down at his armor, as if only now noticing its condition. He wrinkled his nose with distaste.

"Yes," Ariela replied. "It took an arrow in the neck and bolted down the road. I'm afraid it'll bleed to death or be eaten by something."

"I can go look for it," Erik said, gesturing. "That way?"

"Yes. Thank you, it would mean a lot to me."

"The least I can do," Erik said, smiling.

After Erik darted down the road, Runa moved closer and lay an arm over the Scholar's shoulder. "It's alright to feel a bit flabbergasted, you know," she said. "It's not every day you kill your first person."

"Quite frankly, I'd rather it wasn't 'the first' person I ever kill, but the last."

"I hear you," Runa said. "But never say never again."

Ariela pulled free, shooting her an aggravated look.

"What?" the woman said.

Ariela waved a dismissive hand. It was no use.

She walked by the road where Eloise was dragging Forsworn carcasses over to the side. Everyone in their assembly seemed to still be in one piece.

Batting down her apprehension, Ariela stalked to where the man she'd killed lay. The rock seemed to have made his face cave in around the nose. She had no idea that she even possessed that kind of strength—in fact she knew for sure that she did not! Then how had she done it?

In the middle of the bloody mess, the now all-too-familiar sightless gaze of the deceased greeted her. There was no accusation left in those eyes, if no forgiveness either.

To her surprise, the sense of horror petered out quickly, making way for . . . _awe_ of some sort. That she, a small and insignificant runt from a small and irrelevant village in the middle of nowhere, was able to deny someone their right to life, to just snatch it out and quell it like the flame of a candle, filled her with a strange kind of dark elation. To take someone's life: that was power, wasn't it? Astonishing power. That she could still be standing there drawing breath, whereas he would never again. She almost felt gleeful thinking about it, but at the same time, was deeply unsettled by her own callous logic, no matter its brutal consistency.

Runa walked to her side, interrupting the disconcerting line of thought. Roggvar appeared on the other side, resting a hand on Ariela's shoulder. Why did everyone suddenly feel they were invited to touch her when they wished? There was a long gash across the big man's face, reaching from the corner of his right eye right down to his jawline. It would not be the first or last scar in that face, or even the nastiest.

"Well," Runa said, regarding the corpse, "so much for non-hostility."

Roggvar grunted. "Should know better than to trust the word of savages." He glared at Ania, who sat by the roadside hugging her knees. "Sure did not take his time, did he, that King in Rags?"

Ania lifted her miserable gaze. "I don't understand. He assured me . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Runa snorted. "Oh he did, did he? Well then, that there just about changes everything!"

Ania shook her head in disbelief. "This must be some sort of misunderstanding," she said feebly.

"Everything will be as clear as day, once I sink my axe in that old fucker's treacherous little skull!" roared Roggvar.

"We're still going?" Ariela asked, alarmed.

"Oh yeah!" Runa said. "We're still going, alright. I've a mind to have some words with His Raggedy Majesty myself."

It seemed madness. After being attacked, Ariela thought they should at least reassess their plans. "Shouldn't we at least reassess our plans?"

Runa gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Sure: less talk, more head-bashing. Reassessed enough for ya?"

Roggvar laughed. "Ah, yes. I was starting to get warmed up!"

"This is madness," Ania moaned, holding her head and slowly shaking it.

"Hey!" Roggvar shook a thick finger at her. "We're not the ones who broke our agreement. It's that maggoty old goat-sodomizer who brought this on hisself!"

That fired Ania up. "Are you truly this stupid? You think you can beat them all? Madanach's well-guarded."

Roggvar's face flushed with anger. "Now, you—"

"Please!" Ariela interceded. "Don't quarrel." She rubbed her temples, trying to think. Something about this just didn't add up. Then she got it. "Isn't it rather strange that the attack came so soon. I mean, Ania had just gotten to us when it started. Would they really have gotten Madanach's message so quickly?"

Roggvar and Runa glanced each other in hesitation. Ania brightened up. "Of course! That's probably it: Madanach has always had difficulties with upholding communication amongst the different tribal units. These ones probably just hadn't gotten the message that he meant us to be left alone!"

"I don't know about this," said Runa. "I had a hard time believing we could do this without any bloodshed even before we got attacked. You're now asking me to just trust them again?"

"It's better than certain doom, which you _will_ be facing if you try to attack him."

Runa worked her jaw, thinking. Ariela's gaze met Ania's; the woman smiled and nodded, visibly pleased about finding an explanation for the attack, and at least partly crediting the Scholar for it.

"I don't like it!" Roggvar spat. "I say we attack, and I'll shove the haft o' my axe right up his kingly ass!"

An argument broke loose again, Ania yelling at Roggvar, Roggvar at her, Runa simply yelling. Ariela held her head and started to walk out in exasperation, when her attention was caught by the most welcome sight. "Erik!" she cried.

Erik was walking up the road towards them, holding the reins of Ariela's small mare, who walked contently by his side. Ariela ran to meet them. "You found her!" She looked at the spot where the arrow had hit; there was a faint wound, and the horse's hair was stained red, but there was no more bleeding.

"I did!" Erik said with a smile, visibly pleased by Ariela's reaction.

She put her arms around him and, without thinking, pressed a kiss on his cheek. His whiskers prickled her lips, but his face was nice and soft underneath: a pleasing texture with his spongy skin and the taut muscles underneath. As she pulled back, she thought the man might have blushed a little.

"You really have taken a liking to that horse, have you?" he said.

Ariela stared in his eyes. "Well—" she started, but could think of nothing further.

Erik cleared his throat. "Anyway," he said, pointing at the horse. "The arrow was still sticking out from its neck, wedged between muscles. I pulled it out, and treated the wound with some blisterwort." Petting the horse's neck, Ariela saw that the wound was fading quickly. "The arrow had just missed any major veins. An inch to the left and it would have hit the jugular. She is very—"

"Lucky," Ariela said, running her hand over the horse's velvety chest, brushing off flakes of the crusted blood. She smiled at the animal, looking deep in its dark eyes, seeing the innate wisdom there. "Yeah, I believe that's what we're going to call you."

The animal tipped her head, as if approving of the name. It may have also been smiling in its own horsy way.

"Well, isn't that nice?" Runa's voice came from behind Ariela. She stood with arms crossed, regarding the scene alongside with the rest of the companions. "Maybe we'll have to find a priest of Mara and have you two wed." She smirked. "'less you had someone else in mind, of course."

Ariela did not bother to respond, though she did glance at Erik, who appeared a touch uncomfortable.

"Alright, then," Erik said, clearing his throat again. "What are we to do now?"

"Well," Runa said, jerking her thumb at the small woman behind her. "Ania here believes the attack was not commanded by Madanach. So she thinks we should just carry on."

Ariela half expected fierce protesting from Erik, but all he gave was a thoughtful nod. "It _would_ be odd if he'd gotten the order out so quickly," he conceded after a while. He stared at the ground with a pensive frown. "The Forsworn have never shown much of a penchant for coordinated action anyway; their maneuvers have always come across as more erratic and impulsive." He picked up his gaze and looked at each person in turn as he spoke. "Plus, what would he gain by first sending us an invite and then immediately attacking?" He locked his gaze on Runa. "I say we continue."

Even though Erik was her senior, and the active leader of Maren's mercenaries, everyone's waiting eyes were now on Runa. After a moment of silence, she nodded. "I say you're probably right. We proceed." This was met with an unenthusiastic murmur of acquiescence.

After that, once they'd cleared the Forsworn carcasses off to the side of the road for the scavengers to worry about, they gave their fallen comrade, Olav of Windhelm, a brief impromptu burial service. This mostly consisted of a brief and desultory eulogy muttered by Roggvar, with some arbitrary nods and hear-hears from the others. Then, since they decided they couldn't exactly just bury him right there, they decided to shove the scrawny man's earthly remains in a sack with the intention of hauling him back to the Manor, where they could probably burn him and then send the ashes to his family.

All this was conducted with all efficiency and with just about as little sentimentality as Ariela thought humanly possible. At this point, she couldn't pretend to be surprised by any of this.

Partly because it would not have been feasible to drag a corpse in a sack with them to the Sundered Towers, but mostly because they had zero trust in Madanach's word and thus needed to play it safe, they decided to leave part of the group behind. After a good measure of bellyaching and arguing, the lot fell to the Redguard, Elone, who protested this fervently, and the two Nord men, who did in fact not seem to mind at all. The men actually turned out to be twins—no wonder Ariela had a hard time telling them apart! The plan was to wait for the rest of the party until sundown, and if they had not gotten word by then, to hurry to the nearest settlement to round up as many reinforcements as they could, and then storm the Forsworn hideout.

Despite that Ariela got offered the chance to hang back as well, even despite the fact that Erik offered once again to stay with her, she declined the proposition. There was a part of her—a _big_ part of her, in fact, maybe the most of her — that resisted this decision, but she felt it in her bones that she should be there to witness this. That she would regret it if she missed this opportunity to go on this mad, hazardous adventure. Besides, with the others there, she wouldn't get a proper chance to spend time with Erik anyway.

Why did the last thought make her cheeks feel hot?

Tension held the company's tongues once they finally got to moving again. Even Runa seemed to have run out of snide remarks, instead keeping a hard eye on the road as she led the procession. Erik was also lost in thought, casting a preoccupied eye to the northeast. Ariela sensed a certain melancholia from the man, and before she knew, she'd pulled up her horse alongside his.

"What is it, Erik?" she asked

"Ah," he said, "My hometown Rorikstead is close by. It's been quite a while since I last visited there. I wonder . . . " He appeared to lapse back into deep inner reflection. Then, after a pause, he took Ariela off-guard by saying, "Do you think Madanach will be having more surprises up his sleeve?"

Was he asking her a tactical question? "Uh, I don't know. Thought we pretty much established he may have had nothing to do with the previous show of aggression."

Erik nodded his head in thoughtful silence. "Right."

_What an odd exchange_ _!_ Ariela thought.

There was silence then, and nothing, perhaps providentially, came to Ariela's mind for her to say to break it. A lull fell on the rest of the troupe as well, and so for a while the only sound besides the scraping of hooves against the pavement stones was the ubiquitous wind whispering through the grasses and crags dominating the rugged landscape.

Then, finally, ahead of them came into view a small and unremarkable cluster of thatched-roof dwellings, stabbed through by the road. Rorikstead. In silence, they crossed the small bridge, and before reaching the first of the buildings, took a turn up a hillside to their left, still in silence. As they were turning, Erik regarded the humble village with a certain wistfulness, but did not betray his feelings with one word. Ariela found it best not to be the only one talking, so she curbed her natural curiosity.

On the vague path cutting a weaving trail cross the half-yellowed grasses, snaking in the midst of the squat escarpments dappling the terrain, Ariela once more found something worth her attention. They passed a raised circular embankment a dozen paces or so across, with two rings of paving stones surrounding a hollowed inside packed tight with soil. Tapering standing stones bordered the thing, lending the scene a somewhat occult air, the whole spectacle mottled with moss and lichen. For all intents and purposes, it had the look of an immense burial mound. She wondered what could be so big as to be buried there. It was, in fact, quite possibly an ancient mass grave of some sort. She found it odd that she'd not read about anything like this in any of her books. Clearly she had some catching up to do once back at the College.

After they'd passed the mound, Ariela found that there'd been something unsettling about the sight. She could not put a finger on it, but somewhere in the unconscious deep recesses of her mind, it was as though an alarm had been sounded. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end.

To distract herself from the odd feeling, then, she addressed Erik. "So that was Rorikstead, huh?"

The glance he gave her seemed marred with irritation, as if he'd been hoping she would not bring it up. Why that would be, she could not understand, but still could not help feeling a little guilty. Soon, however, his features smoothed. "Aye. That was it. Not terribly impressive, to be sure."

"It was . . . nice," Ariela said, then winced internally. _Really?_ Nice _?_

"Oh, come on," Erik said. "You don't have to pretend for my sake."

"No, no, really. I mean, it's not as if I'm some kind of suave big city girl myself. My hometown back at Cyrodiil, Goldwine, hardly qualified as a village, and in the books of many folks it actually didn't. More like a selection of small farms allotted together for purely administrative reasons. And our farm was at the very outskirts. In fact, my father refused to acknowledge that we were anything but an independent—"

Ariela's voice tapered out as she noticed that Erik wasn't listening, his attention suddenly fixed straight ahead. She traced his gaze and saw a small retinue approaching them some hundred feet away. Their whole convoy came to a halt, then, and she abruptly drew rein to stop Lucky in her tracks.

The atmosphere grew taut in a matter of seconds. Erik cursed under his breath and reached a hand to grasp the haft of the battle-axe strapped to his back. Ariela saw Runa rest her hand on the hilt of one of her blades. Others were getting ready to unsheathe their weapons as well; save for Roggvar, who just went right ahead and whipped out his own sizeable axe.

There were four people approaching them. Three women in that skimpy leather-and-fur armor that left little to the imagination—and which made Ariela marvel how they managed to live in this climate dressed like that—and one man walking in their midst, himself clad in a tunic that left only his arms and legs bare. They all looked very young.

The Forsworn regarded the newcomers in a confrontational, dismissive way, but somehow the manner in which the women conducted themselves around the man in their middle had the taste of overt respect, even servility. They kept their distance from him in a tidy, seemingly premeditated fashion, and kept casting fawning looks at him, as if each of them in some sense competed for his attention.

For reasons not entirely clear for her, Ariela felt herself greatly piqued by such a display.

But there was also something very strange about the countenance of the young man himself. His features were in no way remarkable—if moderately handsome in a delicate, boyish sense—yet held a certain magnetism, something that really drew the attention to them. Still, that was not yet the odd part, Ariela decided; the strange thing was that when she shifted her focus to the women of the posse, she was suddenly unable to bring back to mind what the man had looked like. It didn't return until she took another look, and then the recognition hit, but even then there was no lasting impression.

_Guess he just has one of those faces._

As they were getting closer, the man raised his hand in greeting. "Oy there, our Nord friends!" he cried merrily. He quickly eyed Ariela, flashing a smile no doubt intended to charm. "Mostly Nord, at least."

Roggvar's reply was less buoyant. "State your business!" he growled.

The man gave the women surrounding him a look of theatrical confusion. He then turned to Roggvar, raising arms out to the sides. "We come in peace," he said, in a rising, tentative intonation, as if simply trying out whether that answer would satisfy the grim-faced man.

It did not much seem to, as Roggvar spat in rancor. The spittle landed partly on the ground, partly on his armor.

Runa took over the negotiations. "Madanach send you?"

The man, still sporting the arrogant smirk, tipped his head in concession. "Indeed. His Majesty bids you welcome and sends us to show you safely to his presence."

"'His Majesty'," Erik muttered to himself. But where he likely saw only ostentation in the young man's conduct, Ariela thought there was something in his demeanor and in the way he'd had picked his words that bespoke intentional mummery, even parody, of his purported mission and of the whole issue of kingship itself. Or perhaps she was just reading into it a bit too much.

Runa regarded the man, grim-faced. "And does 'his majesty' know anything about the attack we encountered not an hour ago?" she asked. "Folks with a crazy gleam in their eyes, dressed in skirts and whatnot, spewing out unintelligible gibberish—you might know the type."

"I have no idea what you speak of," the man said. "But if you in your roundabout way are trying to lay blame on Madanach, you're wasting your breath. He has very courteously and in all friendliness invited you to his home—an honor, I may add, not granted to many these days—and to share in his property; what possible reason could he have to attack you?"

Roggvar spat again. " _Courteous_ ," he growled. "I'll invite you to a courteous whooping!"

Runa silenced him with an upraised hand. "So what you're saying is that Madanach played no part in it?"

The man studied the steaming Roggvar at Runa's side with scarcely concealed amusement. "Precisely so," he replied, shifting his focus onto the woman. Then he smiled. "I can see that you are as sharp as you are pretty."

Runa let out a dry laugh. "Charmers, the lot of you."

The man regarded Runa a while longer, still smiling, and then grew serious. "I most deeply regret if you have been assaulted by some of our brethren," he said. "I'm afraid the different dominions of our . . . reign often possess a confused view as to the wills and intentions of each other."

"In other words," Runa said with a snort, "Madanach can't keep a count on which hand he uses to eat and which one to wipe his ass with?"

The man gave a little nod. "You may choose to put it so bluntly, yes."

"Surprised you're willing to admit this," Runa said.

The man's smirk returned as wide as ever. "Well, Madanach is perhaps a little less self-important than your usual monarch, and is not afraid to admit his own short-comings."

"I somehow seriously doubt that."

He shrugged. "Well, in any case, I'm in no position of personal responsibility in upholding his reputation among outsiders. We don't live under despotic rule; we can speak our mind when and how we see fit."

"Don't sound like much of a king to me!" Roggvar said.

The look that the young man gave him, alongside his smile, was a mix of amusement and curiosity, but he made no reply.

"Alright then," said Runa. "Enough with the pleasantries, already. Would you and your . . . um, harem, now kindly show us to your benevolent, scraggly ruler, so we can get on with our business?"

Ariela checked if Runa's choice of word caused any reaction of offence among the women, but none was apparent. Their composure remained as obsequious as ever.

"Certainly." The man beamed. "Follow me."

The companions dismounted to walk their horses for the rest of the way. It was with some reluctance that they followed the Forsworn band, unsure of what to expect at their destination. One thing was clear, though: no one in their right mind voluntarily walked into any base of these unpredictable and notoriously hostile people, not unless they were exceptionally disposed to partake of a violent confrontation. Of course, in their retinue especially Roggvar, and quite possibly Runa, still had that possibility in mind. But even Ariela could tell that without the element of surprise, they would be on very thin ice walking into a lair full of armed Forsworn. In a place inhabited by their king, no less. She sent a little prayer to Julianos that he provide them with the wisdom necessary for getting out of this safe and sound.

They soon approached a ragged ruin of a tower on top of the hill. It looked like just a slightly taller, more ordered, and darker part of its surrounding outcroppings, with an obsidian iron door guarding it. The young man went to unlock the door. As it flew open, he looked at the visitors and brandished his arm in invitation. "After you," he said. "Our guests of honor."

Ariela vacillated between his choice of words, the tone in which he uttered them, and the expression on his face when he so did, trying to decide which one it was that left her feeling the most discomfited.

Leaving the horses waiting outside, they entered the narrow tower. Stone stairs rose sharply on the right. Roggvar was first, and even the burly brute of a man hesitated, having to take a deep steadying breath before he could take up the climb.

Up in a row they filed, steps echoing in the tower's decrepit insides. "Once you reach the landing, keep going up the wooden plank and you'll arrive at a bridge," the young man called from behind. There was no one there to meet them on the stairs save for a rat scurrying down, in its mouth what looked to Ariela like a clump of flesh of one of its own brethren.

They then came to a drawbridge leading into another, identical tower. "And once you get across, turn left and go down," the man instructed.

Upon crossing the bridge, Ariela caught her first glimpse of the valley spreading out behind the crags to their right. It appeared that the towers were positioned quite high. This made her a little nervous, she being no friend of elevated places. Still, based on the brief glimpse, the vista was breathtaking. Another thing that tickled her nerves was the movement she could see at the campsite, though this glance also was a brief one, and partial at best.

They went down a winding wooden walkway, to arrive at a doorway. Finally, going through the door, a better view of the vista greeted them; and for a moment, Ariela's breath was caught in her throat. The sharp summits of mountains rose all across the skyline in the distance, like the sharp teeth of Nirn biting into the firmament. Low-hanging clouds and omnipresent mist painted the scene with an ethereal brush, and it somehow looked as if the whole world could fit into the crag-punctured valley floor below.

Ariela, however, had little time to revel in the beauty of the view, as those coming behind her, clearly considerably less prone to entrancement by natural beauty, shoved her ahead. She took brief note of the hulking dais at the end of a short flight of stone stairs to their right, with a throne of some kind and, at the valley-side edge, a sharply articulated arc decked out with sculptured eagle heads. This ruin had obviously been a place of either power or worship, or quite possibly both, for the ancient Nords. The feeling of it, Ariela decided, was most unambiguously unsettling.

They went left from the door, descending to come in front of the dais. They stopped there, under the stern regard of one more disembodied eagle head, this one larger than the rest, attached to the middlemost of the buttresses supporting the heavy structure. More heads had been propped atop heavy stone pillars, looking out into the valley, as though standing eternal vigil over the cadaver of this dread site. Ariela felt a shiver.

Three wooden poles had been erected betwixt the dais and the nearest pillar, the precise purpose of which were not directly evident to her.

Forsworn fighters stood interspersed, eyes turned to regard the newcomers. The faces were largely impassive, and their bearings alert but without obvious belligerence. Still, Ariela found their presence anything but reassuring, and based on her scan of her comrades, they felt every bit the same. Only Ania looked serene, cheerful even.

The old woman's face lit up even more as her eye fixed ahead. Ariela followed the Nord's gaze, and frowned. She swallowed, but her throat was bone dry.

Soon everyone else had their attention fixed to the same direction. A stooped old man hobbled at them, surrounded by a score of stern-faced, young and able-looking Forsworn fighters. At the sight, after the initial bemusement, Ariela found herself in an emotional state best labeled dumbfounded. This was the illustrious King in Rags? The man's head hung down, his long white hair draping most of his face, and what little was visible of his visage looked ashen and deeply furrowed. His limbs were willowy and shaky, legs looking just about strong enough to painstakingly propel his withered form on.

Surely this was a man at the end of his lifespan, no matter how long of an extension it had already gotten.

Ariela cast a look at Roggvar, who seemed visibly pleased with the sorry sight of the Forsworn sovereign. However, a small flicker of regret was discernable in his eyes, and Ariela guessed it was due to the fact that this brittle old man hardly presented himself as a formidable adversary; not anyone you could strike down in good conscience. Runa, true to her character, showed little sign of what went on inside her head. She regarded the cumbersomely approaching old renegade king, her eyes in a faint, contemplative squint.

"Who seeks entry to my domain?" Madanach's voice came as a feeble, ragged rasp befitting his sobriquet.

Runa rolled her eyes. "Oh, come now," she said brashly. "You can drop the 'senile old man' act. You know well who we are and why we're here."

The old man then made a strange noise, wheezy and hacking. Ariela started wondering if he was having some sort of fit, until she realized that he was laughing. "No one told me that mercenaries have gotten so clever these days," he said. His voice gained substance, adopting a touch of a commanding boom, which must have been impressive in its prime. He raised his head just enough to get a good look at the visitors.

Ariela nearly flinched at the sight of the man's eyes. They were utterly mismatched with the rest of his feeble aspect: terribly sharp and penetrating, their silver gray not as that of a misty sky but rather as the surface of a mirror. They slowly slid from one person to another as if sizing them up, extracting all necessary information, then moving on. When they hit Ariela, it felt as though something was ignited in them. Madanach stared at her for what felt like a long time, and she found herself unable to look away, even though she experienced the intense scrutiny almost as a scalding of her insides.

The old man's lips curved slightly, and then he looked away, relinquishing Ariela from the enthrallment. Once released, her eyes fell to stare down at the ground. She had to take deep breaths, feeling vaguely nauseous.

"So," said Runa in an impatient note, apparently unaffected by the antics of this creepy old man. "I believe you had agreed to part from a certain book for our benefit."

Madanach cocked his head, a motion that looked as if it might just tip him over entirely. He smiled a smile utterly devoid of humor or amity. "Do I perhaps look like a library?" he said. The menace creeping into his tone was impossible to miss.

Except, perhaps, by the mouthy Nord, who simply shrugged. "Actually, you look like you might have invented them."

Instead of showing offence, Madanach chuckled. "Witty, and brave to boot," he said, pointing a thin finger at Runa. "I like you."

"Yeah, well, I only wish the feeling could be mutual." Runa flashed a thin smile verging on goodwill, but which soon died on her lips. "But it ain't."

A wry smirk stayed on the old man's thin lips. "Now, isn't that just too bad," he said. He then let out a sigh of feigned regret. "Well, I believe I've got what you're here for," he said. In an instant, the tension in the air felt as if it eased somewhat. "However . . ." he continued, making Ariela's gut tighten anew.

Runa gave a knowing nod. "Yes, and now here's the catch," she pronounced patiently.

"Well," Madanach said, a shrewd twinkle in his grey eyes. "I'm always glad to be able to help in the . . . uh, academic pursuits of my fellow man—let it never be said that Madanach the King of the Forsworn frowns upon science—but it is not, I trust, all too unbecoming for a man to ask for a small compensation for giving up his possessions?"

"It's not yours!"Ariela wanted to exclaim but managed to bite her tongue. This man might have been brittle on the outside, but he clearly retained a sharp mind. A dangerous one at that, she was sure.

"So it's gold you want!" Roggvar barked, clearly not too worried about his current position and place, nor about the cold, calculating intelligence of the old man. "Haven't you had enough of that, you thieving dog?"

A tall, muscular Forsworn behind the king made to move towards the insolent vulgarian, but Madanach held him back with a casual gesture. "I have only ever taken what is rightfully mine," he said calmly, and then, as if having explained himself enough, moved on. "But it's not wealth I require of you." He looked as square at Runa as his stooped form allowed. "I'm in need of some assistance."

"You need our _help_?" Roggvar cried incredulously.

The tatty king's shrewd smile returned. "After a fashion, yes."

Everyone's expectant eyes were once again on Runa, who puffed her cheeks and threw up her hands. "Alright, what do you want?"

A spark that Ariela did not like one bit ignited in the corner of the old man's eye. "Oh, it's a simple thing, really." He beckoned Runa.

After a moment's hesitation, the woman approached Madanach. He reached up to drape an arm over her shoulder. Runa showed clear apprehension, but did nothing to withdraw or try to remove the arm.

Madanach pivoted with Runa to face the mountainous view. "See here, this all belongs to me," he started, gesturing widely with his free hand. "And rightfully so; of that I've not an iota of doubt."

Erik, beside Ariela, gritted his teeth.

"But it's not enough for me even if I conquer all the lands from here to the Sea of Ghosts," the old man went on. "No, in order to gain real victory, I must conquer . . . their _souls_."

"Well, this is all very interesting," said Runa, trying now to discreetly shake off the arm of the old king, which nevertheless remained resting on her shoulder. "But I fail to see what this has to do with us. We can scantly start giving you lessons on how to improve your charisma. That's what you really need, I think."

"Oh, I don't think so," Madanach said, his voice reaching a triumphant note. "See, I know exactly what I need. Look over here." He gestured past Runa's face, up to where the looming stony eagle head reached out over the ledge of the dais.

Everyone turned to look, including Ariela, who could see nothing remarkable. She was just starting to wonder what it was she was supposed to be looking for, when there was a constrained sound from Runa. She turned back to find Madanach standing behind Runa, smiling a hideous and gleeful smile. A dagger had appeared in his hand, which he now held against the Nord woman's throat, at the point where the neck met the jaw. The man himself was now standing perfectly straight, making him taller than Runa

Shock and dismay were the primary emotions writ on everyone's face, but in the case of Erik and Roggvar, it soon gave way to anger. Both the men unsheathed their weapon and made ready to spring into action. This was accordingly reciprocated by the Forsworn surrounding them.

Ania, on the other hand, simply look struck.

"Now, now!" Madanach said. "If you value the life of your leader, I'd recommend no ill-considered action on your part."

Only then did Ariela take note of the large, dark jewel imbedded in the dagger's hilt. "A soul-gem," she said.

"That is correct," said Madanach, revealing his yellow teeth. "And should I so decide, the soul of your friend will be ever trapped in the Soul Cairn. I'm sure that the Ideal Masters would be more than happy to receive a soul such as hers!"

"Don't . . . listen . . . to him," Runa managed. "Attack!"

Madanach shook his head, clicking his tongue admonishingly. "Hush, now. You may fancy yourself brave, but you're only being foolish" He looked sharply at the others, the tempest stirring in his eyes filling Ariela with dread. "Put away your weapons, now!" he commanded, the tone now devoid of all gaiety. "My patience is wearing thin."

Slowly and reluctantly, Erik and Roggvar relented, then laid their weapons down.

Runa let out a hiss of rage, and the King in Rags embracing her laughed. "That's right, very wise. Very wise indeed." He beckoned two of his subjects to come forth and strip the woman of her weapons, all the while keeping the knife steady at her throat. "Easy now," he soothed the Nord, who was steaming with helpless rage as her blades were removed from her. As they patted her down, they discovered a knife in her boot, and that too went clanking on the ground. Once they'd established that the woman was unarmed, they proceeded to tie her angles and wrists together. They then wound a length of rope all around her legs, and another one so that her arms were pinned against her torso. They lay her slowly on the ground, and only once she was down, did Madanach remove his dagger, then took a quick step back.

Despite the bleakness of the situation, Ariela wanted to smile at the display. Evidently the woman's reputation had spread this far.

The others were similarly treated: weapons stripped and arms and legs tied, though it looked as if somewhat less caution was used in their cases. No one, however, touched Ariela. Two large Forsworn stood right behind her, and as she was too stiff with horror to make a move, she did not specifically require physical detention. So they were content to regard her with watchful eyes, ready to jump on her should she decide to try to make a run for it.

Of that there was no fear.

Ania stood to the side, virtually forgotten by one and all. She was staring at Madanach, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, her lips moving powerlessly as if trying to find words, any words, to lean on, to make sense of what unraveled in front of her eyes. To protest, to plead. Anything. Yet nothing came out.

Madanach observed the proceedings with triumphal mirth, nodding in a satisfied manner and grinning widely. There was no trace left of his earlier decrepit comportment. Instead he stood tall, strong and resolute in his stature, as if a man in his most flourishing prime. This despite the fact that he must have in reality been at least nearly as old as his initial demeanor gave reason to expect.

He had, it seemed, thoroughly duped them.

His piercing, silver gray eyes then turned to Ariela, and his smile took a sinister tint. The frigid claw of terror grasped Ariela's heart as Madanach pointed his finger at her. "This one," he said in his booming, commanding voice. He started toward her, and she instinctively found herself trying to bolt, but strong hands enclosed her arms from behind.

Madanach stood in front of her, locking her in that inescapable gaze of his. "This one is for me," he said.

He reached out a hand and touched Ariela's brow with three fingers. She felt a strangle tingle there, and the King in Rags then withdrew his hand. Her skin burned where his touch had landed, and for a while the world felt very strange. Then it went completely black.


	43. The Sundered Heart

_I'm telling you, if you've gotten it into your head that you can just turn tail on me, you've got another thing coming, sonny!_

Stone-faced, Merard Motierre kept a steady regard on the road ahead, pinching up his face against the cutting wind and shutting out the insistent, belligerent voice screaming in his head. There was no turning back, no changing of course. A lifetime of unequivocal turns and choices, driven by one sole purpose, all action aiming toward one prescribed goal. All that, thrown out.

_And for what, a bestial floozy with claws and tail—_

No, he needed to be vigilant. His mind, he had finally come to realize, was not his own. Had perhaps never been, no matter what careful and well-intentioned lies he'd been fed. And with many of those, it had been his own hand to do the feeding. He had done it to himself. Though for all he knew he'd never even _had_ a self.

Well, it was never too late.

In any case, the circumstances required him to exercise extreme caution with regard to his own mind. Every thought, suspect. Each motivation demanding careful scrutiny.

_You can't do it! You can't simply brush me off from your—_

_Quiet, father._ A firm yet impassionate push. Rancor would not serve him here. It would only serve the voice, which had fed this hollow vessel of flesh and bone with its wrath for so long. The art he'd perfected, that of relinquishing distracting impulses, was his only weapon against it. The one thing at his disposal he'd been permitted to perfect without opposition. The one thing that was his. He felt a moment of triumph for such a small victory, but soon squelched that emotion as well.

They had ridden hard, as if driven by the hand of Sithis himself. Shadya had voiced no complaints, yet Merard was almost certain the feline was suffering. She bore it well, and this too felt as though an omen of sorts. There was rightness there, one which he'd never felt before.

No, he had never felt right at all.

Hatred. Revenge. What had those notions ever done for him? What had his entire life so far been all about? The father whom he'd never known. The lost destiny that was never his. Had it truly even been _his_ revenge? No, of course not. The answer so obvious now, yet hidden from him for all those years. He had been used. By this . . . voice. Disembodied and isolated. Yes, it was as simple as that. How had he known, whence had come his conviction and inner certainty that it even truly belonged to his father? And even if it did, then . . . a ghost? A demon? Was he possessed? Or was he, the Void forbid, insane?

_That's it, you're getting it! Gods, I can't believe it's taken you this long—_

Nothing but disjointed words, just as soon severed from his mind. Back into the discordant mumble, the amorphous mire which cluttered the brain before the willful construction of so-called articulation of true intent. There was never, had never been, anything so completely unreliable.

Soon, even emotion lay cast aside. And what was left of him then?

Questions . . .

What awaited him?

Where would he go?

What would become of him?

_Inconsequential!_

It was this female. This . . . woman of sorts. She had done this for him. She had awoken something in him, something he had not even known was there. And he would one day thank her for that.

Or then would make her pay.

* * *

_What am I doing? What am I doing? What—am—I—doing?_

Sadly, she knew there was no rational answer to that question. And the act of posing it was itself little more than a ritual, a sort of prayer or mantra of religious import mumbled with the ritual of sacrificing everything that made sense, that stood to reason, on the altar of sheer headlong stupidity. Well, she had made her choice. Thrown in her lot. It was all down to facing the consequences now.

This damnable ride, how long had it already lasted? A lifetime. Try as she might to keep herself from complaining, the horse's jouncing backside against her . . . underside had steadily and inexorably grown impossible to bear. And she honestly didn't know how much longer of this she could take.

_Horseback is no place for a sore puss—_

And yet, if there was one thing to be said about the breakneck speed at which they'd journeyed, it was that it would be so much sooner this was all done and over with. Shadya couldn't wait for that. She may not have known what would wind up happening—what with this mad plan of splitting the loot while deceiving one of the most dangerous men in Tamriel, while acting as though the undeniably steamy sex thing that they had cooked up was something like, what, (hah!) _love_?—but she could not wait until it had happened, and whatever would follow just would.

Might have been less complicated if the two could even bring themselves to trust each other. But they couldn't.

At least she certainly could not.

On the other hand, when had the last time been since anyone had come anywhere as close as this man had? It damned near shocked her into numbness to realize that she couldn't even recall such a time. This was, after all, someone whom she'd watched kill two people in the time it took an average person to blink an eye, and done it without a single flicker of his. And _he_ was the one to get closest to her? To be sure, that did not reflect too favorably on her.

_And who am I to talk, then? Miss cracking-necks-left-and-right?_

There was no denying that they shared some things that most people knew nothing about. Sure, being a thief might sound thrilling. Throw out any notion of the sanctity of the right to ownership, add a pinch of pleasure derived from sneaking into people's property unseen, and ensconce the whole thing within perhaps a little perverse excitement over the danger of being caught, and you'd soon think to find any Jorgen Q Public embrace the role of a child of shadows. But of course it wasn't as simple as that. Nothing ever was. Shadya, for one, when she had first tried her paws in the trade, had entertained unrealistic romantic notions. Not that it still wasn't exciting. It was. But at the same time required a certain skillset, and a very particular character. It was particularly the latter that set a thief apart. So far, she'd thought she had that one down.

Yet until this day she had lacked words for the loneliness that had always been with her. Not until Merard had given them to her. She was on her own. Ever in between. Native to nowhere. As in the first words of the Thief's Verse: _Clever thief watches_ . . .

Watches, yes. Always watching. Always on the outside.

And what _was_ it to be a thief? A taker of things, but of what things? Did they rob people of their truths, liberate them from their own precious held lies? The delusion of ownership. The fraudulent quest for stability, for permanence. Did they then give anything in its place? She remembered reading a poem once, as a child, about a thief who stole the secret of fire from the gods, to give it to mortals. A great hero, him; to the mortals, at least.

She never understood why the gods should've denied the mortals their precious fire in the first place. Bastards.

In any case, bad luck for the thief in the end. Getting himself burned alive was his reward. Perhaps while sitting down with his new chums round the newly-won firelight, kicking back. Telling tales, cracking jokes, having drinks . . . then suddenly— _whoosh_! _All for a good cause, I suppose. Still… some moral._ _"See what becomes of the do-gooder." Or of him who sticks his nose into places it doesn't belong. Or asks one too many questions . . ._

To truly be a taker, then, the breaker of the sacred yet fraudulent order—and _not_ to get burned—one must stand nowhere. Was that the moral? Not to settle down? Not to be caught? To keep moving?

To not shy away from doing what needed to be done. Even if that meant killing without a second thought.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn't just that they were thieves. Perhaps she was indeed every bit a cold blooded butcher as Merard was. A taker of lives as well as truths. She did, after all, carry all the nature-given telltale signs of a born killer. Tooth and claw, the true currency of nature.

And what of the flip-side? The bane of mages, that innate desire to die. Did that plague the thief as well? She could easily see how that one came about. The longing to finally reach a conclusion. To at long last dispense with all the uncertainty, the ambiguity. To finally be _done_!

_So does the will for one's own demise pertain only to creatures living and breathing, or might it also be the propensity of the world itself? Could it be that we living beings, the spiteful, destructive gnats that we are, represent the world's innate self-destructiveness? As manifestations of its desire to be destroyed: to die, to kill itself?_

Was it not obvious?

_We are the world's prolonged suicide_.

No, there was little doubt that she and he were the same. Might be they deserved each other.

And, just perhaps, that wasn't all bad.

He _did_ make love like . . . yes, she might as well say it . . . like an animal. And yet could be gentle as well. Firm, skillful hands. _A man of the arts, I suppose. I could get used to that_. The thought made her smile.

And she could not trust him.

Nope, not at all.

And yet . . .

"Merard!" she yelled, if only to break out from within her own head.

Merard sawed the reins to bring the horse down to a trot. Then spoke over his shoulder. "Alright, Shadya."

"Alright what? Why did you slow down?"

"Why . . .?" A frown of puzzlement. "I thought that you wanted me to."

_Oh, how considerate!_ "Don't you think," she said, "that if I wanted that, I'd just fucking _out and say it_?" _Now, that didn't quite come out right._

"Ah," he said, "right. So, are you okay?"

Shadya sighed. "Yes, I'm fine. Now, we should soon be nearing Falkreath, correct?" She had only been around these parts once before, and a good while ago at that.

"That's right," Merard said. "That's the old watchtower right over there."

A ruin. "Pretty. Now, I'm not sure it's such a good idea after all for me to wait for you there. After all, if they—"

"Just keep the cowl on and you should be fine."

"Yeah, nothing as unsuspicious as a stranger roaming into town enclosed from head to heel in a cape."

"They can just mind their own gods-damned business."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one whose throat they'll be slitting after a little game of pass-the-kitty. If I'm lucky, that is."

"Ah," Merard said, grinning. "Don't keep selling yourself short. I'm sure that you'd give 'em one hell of a time with it. Besides, I'd be back before they got too far. Be Oblivion to pay then, for sure."

"How reassuring." In spite herself, Shadya did feel a warm glow kindle within her by his sentiment. "Seriously though—"

Merard raised a halting hand. "Wait!"

In a flash, the warmth was as good as gone. Shadya tensed. "What?"

He pointed while slowing the horse to a walk. Ahead of them, a rock throw away, a bunch of people stood in the middle of the road, facing them.

_Shit_. "What do you think they—"

"I've a pretty good idea," Merard growled quietly. And if Shadya thought that she was herself tense, the man suddenly felt like a slab of stone against her. One exuding heat enough to burn a small house to cinder. "Just keep silent and let me handle this, alright?"

Shadya nodded at his back, swallowing. _I knew it, I knew it; I fucking knew it! Shoulda guessed it wouldn't work! Then again, there's only a handful of them. This mean bastard here could probably singe the lot of them into a smoldering huddle afore they could as much as raise a hand._

Despite Merard's instructions, she was fully prepared to do her bit. After such a rear-busting horse ride, slashing up some bandit scum might be just the right sort of exercise to limber her up.

_That's the spirit!_

Five paces from the waiting people, Merard drew rein. Peeping from behind his back, Shadya found a confirmation to her suspicions. A scruffy bunch, mostly. Bandits without a doubt.

"Salute, travelers!" called one of the men, chipper. Now, there was a voice dripping honeyed venom if she'd ever heard one.

"What's the holdup?" There was, by contrast, nothing at all mellifluous about Merard's growled reply.

The fellow, a young and tall Breton with chestnut locks curling down the sides of his, Shadya begrudgingly allowed, strikingly attractive features, was all pearly-toothed smiles. Something about his presence made the hairs at her back stand on end. In those deceivingly convivial dark eyes, there twinkled a light holding not a sprinkling of goodwill.

"Ah, now," the man said placatingly, "no holdup, sir, no holdup at all. Just here to ensure your safe and orderly return to our chief. That is all. Now . . ." He peered past Merard, at Shadya. "Not exactly what we expected, to be sure. But then things seldom are. Am I right?" Grinning, he winked an eye at Merard.

"The Nightingale?"

Nod. "None other. Now, please." There were sounds behind Shadya, and she turned her head to find more bandits there. She recognized, and recognized well, the look on at least one of the decidedly unfriendly faces studying her. Hunger. Heavy-handed hunger. One woman among them, and not a soothing sight that one, either. "If you'll be as kind as to please dismount," the man continued, "and we can be on our way. I'm sure that your unforeseen, eh, _companion_ won't mind coming along as well." There was no suggestion anywhere in that.

Merard didn't budge. "Why should we dismount?"

The young man regarded him, the jauntiness of his immaculate visage shedding away, leaving the smile on it a cold, dead thing. With a voice perfectly matching his mien, he replied, "Why should I ask again?"

Tense silence followed, during which Shadya could practically hear the creak of tendons and muscles of hands preparing to fly at weapons at any second. Merard seemed to almost vibrate against her. Was that the magica stirring? She braced herself. _This is going to get ugly._ But she was prepared. She was ready. _Do or die. Or maybe do and_ then _die. Whatever, I've had about enough of running anyway._

She almost flinched, then, when Merard abruptly relaxed. "Of course," he said nonchalantly. "Of course. There's no problem here." He angled his face sideways to offer Shadya an almost convincingly genial smile. "I'm sure that we'll both welcome a bit of stretch for our legs after hard riding."

Shadya, for one, was not reassured. _What are you planning?_

Merard hopped off the horse, then offered her a hand. Clambering down, she stole a glance at the young man whose friendly airs had returned, not one touch more believable. In any case, the hostility that had just a second ago nearly choked the air had if not disappeared then at least withdrawn a few steps to observe how the situation developed.

To be sure, there was nothing about Merard to cause suspicion of violent intent. But then Shadya had taken heed of how the man could deal a viper-quick surprise. But for now he simply laid a hand lightly on her shoulder, looking deep into her eye in a manner that she, at least, couldn't construe as any kind of cypher. "So," he addressed the young man, making no effort to try to stop a hatched-faced bandit from collecting the horse's reins, "You good people just lead the way. I've absolutely no reason to keep the Nightingale waiting."

"Yes," the man mused, glancing at the Khajiit. "Of course not. Please." He gestured, "After you."

Some minutes after they'd started filing down the road, Shadya, with a furtive glance about to ensure no one was listening, pressed against Merard at her side and muttered, "What now? This is going all wrong. All wrong. I'm telling you, I've a really, really bad feel—"

"Hush," Merard said coolly. With a pang of shame, Shadya realized that she'd been babbling. "Whatever happens, you must stay calm."

"What are we going to _do_?" She could not keep the desperation from her voice.

"There's not much we _can_ do. That kid. He may look harmless, but I assure you he's not."

_No shit!_ "You _know_ him?"

Merard quietly shook his head. "I think I know the type, though. Maybe. Something not quite right about him. I know he must be bursting with magic, but once again . . . ah, never mind. Look, just act casually. I'll think of—"

"Something—" said a voice behind them, and this time Shadya couldn't help a start.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" the pretty young man said with a laugh. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Uh, that's alright," Shadya muttered, at once hot with embarrassment and cold with dread.

"Anyway. As I was about to say: something I've always been curious about." He moved on Merard's other side. "Now, you were raised in High Rock, correct?"

"That's right," grated Merard.

"I knew it! I could tell it by your inflection. I myself was born and raised in the Imperial City."

"Fascinating."

"Anyway, I have heard it said that among no other human race in Tamriel are there as many of those gifted the magic arts as the Bretons. And that in High Rock, more different schools of magic exist than anywhere else put together. Is this really true?"

Merard eyed the boy for a while, then, instead of answering, asked, "You yourself a man of the arts, by any chance?"

The lad smiled. "I've been known to dabble. Oh! Speaking of which, do you want to see a trick?"

"A _trick_?"

"Indulge me. Now." He stopped abruptly, spreading out his arms, fingers waggling. "My hands are empty, yes?"

Everyone halted now. Merard regarding the younger man, bemused. Shadya felt a nasty foreboding. It did not help when she realized that one of the bandits had stopped right behind her.

"Now, watch really carefully."

The bandit behind her edged closer, enough so that Shadya felt the touch of his breath down her neck. Her instincts screaming furiously at her, she could no longer contain herself. "Merard, look out!" she cried.

Merard swung his head round, frowning. And just then, the younger Breton's hand shot out, coming to halt about Merard's neckline. It now held a dagger.

With an upsurge of panic, Shadya was just about to do something—no clue what, in truth, just _something_ —when she felt the by now too familiar cold weight settle on her own throat. The bandit's voice, hoarse right by her ear, said, "Not a twitch outta you, hear?" She closed her eyes. _No . . ._

"Ta-da!" the handsome young bandit said. "Now, I did tell you to watch carefully."

A touch unexpectedly, there was no anger visible in Merard. He slowly raised his hands. "It's not necessary—"

"What is not necessary," said the other man, "is for another fucking word to come squirming out of your mouth. Now." While he spoke, the female bandit came forth with a length of rope, caught one of Merard's compliant hands to twist it behind his back. "Not a single imprudent move, or I swear I'll be wearing your fuzzy little whore's fur as a cloak before I'm done with you." Despite the vitriolic words, it wasn't anything like anger that was in his voice. Rather, it was cold-hearted eagerness; as though he was just hoping for Merard to contest his order.

This, however, did not happen. Merard docilely let the female bandit bind his hands, shooting Shadya—herself far less graceful about letting the stinking brute tying her hands do his work—an odd glance. Was it supposed to be comforting, or regretful? Both? Neither? She couldn't think straight. Incensed, she wheeled on the bandit behind her. "Look, could you be just a little less gentle about it, you big stinking sack of pigshit—"

Exploding pain in the back of her head cut her words off, then causing the whole world to spin far, far away into oblivion.

* * *

From absolute nothingness, something came. Something: seamless, complete. A birth, a split. Then, begot from the matrimony of uniform immutability and swirling disorder, form. Life.

Pain.

And soon, with a keening groan, she was torn back into the world. From . . . wherever. And where was this, then? Wherever it was, life here, it seemed, was misery. The light hurt her eyes as she tried to open them, so she just let them stay closed. The throbbing of her skull made her want to vomit.

_Gotta lay off the wine, sister. Skooma is the substance for cats._

"Shadya."

Oh no. It wasn't drink at all that did this. No, something far worse than that. It was that . . . man. _Godsdammit_ but did she have to go and get herself involved with another stupid damn _man_! Hadn't she learned by now that nothing good ever came—

"Shadya!"

" _What_?" she managed, piqued. Then immediately felt sorry for saying anything at all. _Oh, Alkosh, just let me die! No need to torture me so._

"Quick before they come!" the male voice hissed. Merard, that was the name. The bastard.

"Lemme die!" she blurted. At what was this pressure about her wrists all about? The aching of her arms? Why'd she feel so . . . stretched thin?

"Huh? Just listen, alright. There's something you need to know. I had to—"

Shadya vomited. Loudly. The hot, sticky, foul stuff dripping down her chin, onto the fur on her chest. Her cloak, she realized, was gone.

"Eh! Damn, Shadya. Are you alright?"

_No, you idiot; I'm_ dying _, alright!_

"Shit, here they come."

_Let 'em! What do I care, I'm dead._

Steps, coming closer. Murmured voices. Male voices, at least two of them. _Well, come on then, boys! Have at it. See if I_ _care._

"Look," Merard whispered, "whatever happens—"

"Now, won't you look at this!" The sardonically booming baritone cut off Merard's frantic hissing.

It was just as well. _Whatever happens . . . well, it just happens, right?_

The steps approached, to halt right beside her. She couldn't be bothered to lift her head to take a look. She just waited.

"What's this then? Hmm . . . Now, this simply won't do."

A sudden strange feeling came upon her. A hot tingle from head to toe, and then a sudden lifting away of the veil of deathly stupor. The headache simply melted away, and she was swept over by resurgent energy, as though after a healthy dose of Skooma. When she opened her stunned, now pain-free eyes, she was looking at a squat and well-groomed man, with one hand poised in front of him, a fading halo of warm light around it. His likely misleadingly cordial, neatly goateed features were fashioned into a kindly smile.

Beside the man, almost so as to to simply provide contrast, stood the nastiest and meanest looking, most scar-seamed gargantuan brute of an Orc she'd ever had the displeasure of laying eyes upon. And sure enough, the scowl on that ugly face seemed to say that just as soon as the man had healed her, the Orc would like to hammer her back into a state of disrepair with those massive ham fists of his.

The Nightingale. And his bodyguard. She'd heard the name of the latter, too. Bashnag. Bashnag the Bonecracker. Orcs had the knack for the picturesque if wholly unimaginative sobriquets.

Only now was she able to take the measure of their situation. She and Merard were side by side, on a roughly ten-by-ten foot slightly elevated cobbled platform set between two heavy stone pillars. The feeling on her wrists and arms that had baffled her earlier was explained by the rope tying her wrists together, suspended from a length of chain hanging above her. Merard beside her was similarly positioned. The gloom of the large, dank room surrounding them was awash with dancing shadows from the wavering torchlight. It took no genius to decipher the purpose of the moss-riddled chamber; the gibbets lying in a heap next to one hanging off the ceiling, the manacles attached to the wall, and the three holding cages behind them made it plain enough.

As to where exactly the jail resided, she had no idea. But she strongly suspected Helgen.

The Nightingale standing in front of them spread out his arms. "My esteemed guests," he announced measuredly. The man, after a moment of regarding his prisoners with an ironic shine in his dark eyes, then fixed a pointed gaze on Merard. "Our latest recruit, the master thief. And . . ." He switched to Shadya, cocked his head inquiringly. "And what do we have here? An uninvited little . . . _purr_ -loiner?"

Shadya could do naught but blink at the man. She knew not whether something was expected of her, but in any case, no response was forthcoming.

No matter, the Nightingale soon lost what interest he'd had in her, ambling instead to the man hanging next to her. "Merard, Merard, Merard," he mused, shaking his head. "What am I going to do with you? All this." His hand motion encompassed the circumstances of their predicament. "For what, a little piece of . . . _tail_?"

"I brought you the stone," Merard grated.

"Huh? Oh! You did, you did. You most certainly did bring me the stone. And . . . more?" He glanced markedly at Shadya.

"I can explain. She—"

The Nightingale raised one gloved hand, shushing. "No need, my friend. Believe me, I know how these things go. Now." The hand then slipped underneath his cloak, and came out holding a familiar object. "This is the stone that you brought me." He was stirring the gem, as if weighing it, wearing a shrewd expression. He eyed them in turn. "Seems as though you two make quite a team. Found a way to put aside your respective feelings of greed just so you could convey me this. Why, I'm almost . . . touched." He laughed, his eyes taking on a considerably less good-humored glow. "Or perhaps that isn't exactly right. Perhaps it was something else that you had in mind? Something that I personally might not be so well-disposed to accept. Though, I suppose you figured it would be too late before I found out exactly what you did. Am I right so far?"

Shadya felt her heart being slowly squeezed by every word coming out of the Nightingale's mouth, the dark edge inching to the surface with each syllable. He knew. And he was not a man inclined to just forget and forgive. Their plan, their utterly amateurish attempt at duping the most sought after criminal mastermind of Tamriel, had pathetically blown up in their own faces. And there would be no fixing this. They were totally at this man's mercy now. And from what she'd heard, he had never had any of that in his heart to begin with.

Merard kept his silence, eyeing the Nightingale with dark intent. She could see it in his eyes that he had gathered just as much as she had. He also knew that they were done for. What she couldn't see, however, was any inkling that he was inclined to accept it.

"Really, what all of this hinges upon," the Nightingale continued, "is what I told you earlier, Merard—what was it? That there was no way of telling the difference between the original stone and the forgery that I gave you? As I recall, that is more or less what I said. Well." He grinned. " _I lied_." He waited for a couple heartbeats for his words sink in. "See, there is a difference. In fact, a quite obvious one, so long as you know what to look for. Bashnag, go in the Khajiit's bag will you. See what you can find." He focused on Merard. "Yes, my friend. See, no matter what you seem to believe, I'm no fool. I haven't gotten to the position I hold today by letting people swindle me, or to plot behind my back."

"I didn't—"

"Hush, Merard. You'll get your chance to speak your piece yet. I'll be done soon enough. See, this stone you brought me? This one." He hefted it. "This stone . . ." His grin widened momentarily to reveal a full set of teeth, to then suddenly die out. "It's the real one. The one from Calcelmo." He closed the gem within his fist, giving a contended nod. "You have kept your end of the bargain."

A cold unlike she'd experienced so far seemed to stop the flow of Shadya's blood. All of a sudden, the room whirled around her. Her ears humming, her eyes wide, and her mouth hanging helplessly open. _What?_

Merard turned his head to return Shadya's shocked, searching gaze. He look mortified. _Guilty_.

"What did you do?" she asked, her voice a thing made of ice.

"I'm . . ."

" _What_?" she demanded, though the sound seemed to carry out from another room. "You're what? I'd very much like to know what exactly it is that you are!"

He looked completely unable to respond, and his uncharacteristically powerless gaze fell to the floor. And after the temporary gush of rage, Shadya herself felt utterly robbed of vitality. Overcome by devastating, mind-numbing disbelief and dismay, a despondent numbness stole her away. Her heart sank all the way to the bottom of her stomach, deluged in bile.

And the Nightingale, he only gave a little chuckle. "Ah, it's a treacherous business, is it not?" Bashnag returned, handing his boss the other gem. "And what have we here?" He took the phony stone to hold between the tips of his fingers. The battered heart. The deception. He brought it forth, to have it hover in front of Shadya's face. "This one, on the other hand?"

As she reluctantly looked at it now, gleaming dully in the chamber's dim light, it did indeed looked like a heart. Misshapen, yes, but then wasn't the real thing that as well? A real heart? Asymmetrical. Imperfect.

Fallible.

"This, I'm afraid . . ."

A heart . . .

_Her_ heart.

". . . is quite worthless." With those words, the Nightingale raised the stone high above his head, then brought it down with force. The gem hit the stone floor, shattering.

As Shadya watched the dozens of shards fly apart and scatter jingling across the floor, the whole sequence seeming to happen within a decelerated time-frame, she felt the last of her energy sapping away. The heart, sundered, exploded into a hundred different direction, utterly beyond repair. She thought that she knew exactly how it must have felt. _Now, if you'll just remember to be as protective of your heart as you are of your person, you should be just fine_. The ominous words of the strange woman, the _Ohmes_ , rushing back to her. What had the hag seen?

What did it matter?

She barely listened to the words coming out of the Nightingale's mouth as he slowly walked from between the hanging forms of her and the Breton man. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Merard's regard fixed on her. She did not return it.

". . . and as is usual with such things," the Nightingale went on, "tragedy is more often than not what results." His steps came to a stop. "And yet the hand of fate remains, as ever, indifferent. There are us who serve powers that are so radically different in nature than what people are accustomed to, that they are seen as malevolent in their great reluctance to take a moral stance. But then, when does nature ever take a moral stance? Answer me that." He aired a heavy sigh. "And so, not many things remain to be said here. Indeed perhaps only these two. First this." He paused. "I do believe that innocence truly is life's greatest illusion."

He placed his palm on top of Shadya's head. She did not care.

"And, finally, this . . ." The Nightingale clutched a handful of hair and pulled the head back violently. "HAIL SITHIS!"

A cold feeling slid across Shadya's throat, followed by a hot one. She couldn't breathe. Panic, after the initial shockwave of confusion, causing for her whole body to spasm as she kept desperately opening her mouth, struggling for the breath that would not come. But soon all fight seeped out of her. A cold, deadening calm stealing into her, her muscles relenting their futile battle. At the edges of her vision, darkness closing in.

Everything around her became very still, silent. The only sound in her ears the thrumming rhythm of her still-beating heart. The cadence was transforming, from a frantic flight at the face of the inevitable to the strum of slow capitulation. But yet enduring.

And underneath, accompanying it, slowly emerged another, deeper hum. A second pounding heart. Suddenly, she knew it. It was the heart of this world. And it was the heart of a god. One mislaid, torn asunder. Under its strong pulse, the heart was torn as well. Underneath the surface, cracked. Pulled into two opposite directions, two logical extremes, while simultaneously upholding a barrier between them; keeping the two from rolling into each other, from melding all of existence into one incomprehensible whole. Disarray so complete as to obscure the Void itself. And the heart was straining underneath that pressure between its two incongruous homes, yet maintaining that almost impossible balance. As of yet . . .

But that was not all, she saw, though not with her eyes, as everything had now been swallowed by complete darkness. In her mind's eye, then, she saw that the heart was being assailed, manipulated with tools unseen. But beating. Still beating. Where hers, by comparison, kept slowing down.

Slowing, slowing . . .

Beneath all that, beneath the two beats, the solid one and the one failing, yet another sound taking shape. Growing, hacking, blistering; fraught with emotion, none of it kind. It knew Shadya, mocked her. It was her own voice, only . . . not.

_I'd advise you, Shadya of Da'kheavek, to keep those eyes open—to look not only where you're going, but where you're coming from as well. It may be the only way to save yourself._

More words of the Ohmes coming back. One final thought. Shadya could almost see those eyes again: ancient, brimmed with mirth.

The very last sound in her ears, then. Laugher. Soon gone as well.

Perfect silence.

Then everything was wiped clean.

* * *

Merard stared, agape, numb, as the solemn-faced Nightingale still held the now dead Shadya's head back, the gash across her throat yawning blood onto her chest and stomach. A pool collecting underneath her. The knife in the man's hand, stained crimson.

His own throat felt like it was closing up. "I'm . . ." he croaked weakly.

"And so," the Nightingale breathed, releasing the Khajiit's head to let it loll onto her chest, "tragedy knows yet another birth." He wiped the blade on the fur on the back of Shadya's leg, slipped it back into the holster underneath his cape.

As the man swept past him, Merard could do nothing but stare at the limply hanging female who had just been alive a minute ago. He'd seen so many dead bodies, a good portion of his own making. But none quite like . . . like this.

_My own making . . ._ "I'm . . ."

The Nightingale gently placed a hand on Merard's cheek, pivoted his head in order to face him. He was smiling faintly. An almost pleasant smile. "Now you," he said softly. "What _are_ we going to do with you?"

Merard could not bring himself to feel anything, not in the way he should have. "I . . . gave you the stone."

"Sorry? Oh!" The Nightingale laughed. "I know. That's not the problem here. Well." He glanced at Shadya "Not my problem, at least. No, as far as I'm concerned, we're good on that one." His eyes narrowed contemplatively. "Now, planning to _kill_ me. That . . . that . . ." He was nodding, while wagging his finger. "That's an entirely different matter."

Merard looked at the man blankly. The dismay that he knew should have been there, missing.

"You're not going to try to deny it then?"

Merard stared.

"Who sent you?"

_No one._

"I'm . . ."

The Nightingale cocked his head with curious squint. "What? You're what?" He shrugged, after another stretch of no reply. "Well, not to fret. We'll have your insides and outsides before I'm done with you. Make no mistake." He seized Merard's face in between his hand. The hold was nearly tender—as was his baritone croon, when he added, "It will be my personal pleasure."

It was a strange sensation, being so constrained. So powerless. It held an odd flavor, one as yet unfamiliar to him. Almost . . . sensual. The vicious promise in the other man's eyes. Merard knew he had a high tolerance for pain, but did not necessarily yet know his limits. Was he about to find out?

"Boss."

Still holding Merard's face and his gaze, the Nightingale replied to Grushnag. "What is it?"

"You'd better hear this."

The man breathed out, nodding. "Very well."

For a while, Merard was left to his own devices, as the giant Orc led his boss aside for a muttered conference. Indifferent to the two, his attention was once more drawn to Shadya. Through the numbness, he felt a sting of some emotion. He did not recognize it. Half of him expected for the Khajiit to move again. Any minute now . . .

"I'm . . ."

"Ah," said the Nightingale, returning to him. "Alas, something's come up. We'll have to wait a little longer for our time together. I'm sure that you can wait." He gave Merard's restraints another look, then flashed him a close-lipped smile.

Without another word, the Nightingale swirled round and, Bashnag at his heel, strode onto the stairs leading out. Leaving Merard alone.

_Alone._

He stared at Shadya's inert corpse. The pool of blood had started congealing around the edges. All the life in her, drained out. Seeing it, he felt something draining out him as well. For good, this time.

"I'm . . ." Only a whisper came out anymore.

In the back of his mind, there was a sound like malevolent laughter.

_I'm . . ._

Point of no return.

"I'm . . ."

_Sorry?_

 


	44. The Interference

So this was now the second time in the space of just a few days that Ariela found herself bound and gagged. That was perhaps one too many times for comfort—the comfort-zone being, roughly, about exactly zero.

And, to add insult to injury, she was once more looking at the drab, dispiriting walls of a cavern, listening to the sound of dripping water, of pebbles steadily eroding off of the walls, and of the hurried skittle of small legs of various underground critters reverberating in the vastness of the space.

She was tied to a sturdy wooden pole secured to the ground, a thick rope binding her hands above her head with the wrists together. Her ankles were secured on either side of the pole, leaving the splintery beam between her legs. Lengths of rope had been wrought around both her pelvis and her chest right under the breasts. The bindings thus left her quite immobilized, and, together with the dirty rag stuffed in her mouth, made her feel a claustrophobic panic starting to build up, as if to offer a fitting accompaniment to the discomfort already firmly present.

But that, of course, would not have been enough. No, the truly upsetting fact, the one part of the equation without which her current predicament might have even been considered to reside within the ambiguous limits of tolerability, was that the old King in Rags—Madanach, a man who had explicitly declared her "for himself"—did not at all come across as a man in his full sanity, and in fact seemed to possess that most disconcerting of combinations in the human character in which madness mixed gaily with unbridled malice.

And there he was now, standing in front of her and staring at her in her powerless state, a glint of cruelty and greed in his otherwise slightly glazed eyes. His breathing was thick and heavy, going slowly in and out, heaving and dropping the bone ornaments in the chest piece of his royal attire, which in his case meant an outfit so worn out it had been reduced, in true fact, to a bunch of rags.

And for the longest time, he did nothing but simply stare at her.

Behind Madanach's furred leather boots, the rock shelf on which they stood gave way to emptiness where the cavern continued its steady slope down, reaching who knows how deep underground. To Ariela's right, there was a flight of stairs leading up, consisting of pieces of log roped together. She'd no knowledge as to how far down they were, but, if she had to guess, judging by the temperature and air pressure, it was closer to the surface than to the bottom. If indeed there _was_ a bottom.

There was a brazier on the right side of Madanach, and the hiss of the coals mixed with the ragged sound of his breathing. In front of him was a long table, and on it a selection of what looked like tools meant for embalming corpses. To her growing disconcert, however, Ariela had all the reason to assume that Madanach was not about to use them for conserving any dead bodies—save, perhaps, for Ariela's, once he was done with her.

The binds were as unforgiving as ever. For some reason she thought of Grushnag. She would have welcomed the surly presence of the kidnapping, person-peddling Orc right about now.

As if anticipating her thoughts, Madanach turned his red-rimmed eyes to the tools. He ran a withered hand over them, his lips moving as he murmured to himself. For the time being, it was as if he forgot all about the Scholar in his clutches. He smiled to himself, chuckled. Then his eyes widened. "Yes!" he rasped. "The infinite void of the soul . . ." More unintelligible mumbles.

Ariela felt the panic swell in her chest. What was this about? Was it true that the Forsworn worshiped the Daedra? Were their 'old gods' in truth Daedric Princes? Was she going to be sacrificed in some unholy rite? To have her soul sucked into the Void?

To calm herself down, she went back to what she knew about the Daedra. Nothing she knew about them typically involved human sacrifices, at least on any sustained, ritual basis. In fact, quite a few of them showed little interest in the affairs of Nirn's denizens to begin with, and thus tended not to interfere unless specifically summoned, if even then. Not all of the Lords—as with Molag Bal or Mehrunes Dagon, for example—had vested interest in Mundus.

To avoid thinking of the dreaded Molag Bal and his ilk, Ariela recalled the private theories of her tutor Cicero Herrennius that he'd shared with her in confidence, ones in stark contrast with the official teachings. According to Herrennius, there was good reason to assume that the Daedra as beings had come into being only _after_ the beings of Nirn, after men and the mer. And whatever unsavory qualities they had, they'd originally copied from what they'd seen happen on the material plane. Their evil, then, was none other than imitation of the evil of creatures like the human beings.

She had to admit that even she had found that to be rather far-fetched. But it had mostly been a none-issue, since Herennius had rarely spoken at all of his raw, undeveloped, and mostly entirely intuitive ideas, not even to her. And yet, the suggestion was certainly an intriguing one.

Ariela's musings were cut short as Madanach turned his fevered gaze back to her, as if remembering her anew. His lips spread into something akin to a grin. "Well, now," he finally said between labored breaths. "Here we are, just the two of us." He fanned out his arms to encompass the cavern. "And with no one to interrupt us!" He made to move towards Ariela, and she instinctively started another hopeless round against the ropes. Madanach gave his head a rueful shake. "Already you'd rather be leaving?" He sighed. "Have I lost my charms, is that it?" He stood in front of her and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, grinning.

Ariela felt his breath on her face. It had no odor. She whipped her head about, trying to evade the touch of Madanach's cold hand.

Finally, he took her chin hard in his hold, looking deep into her eyes. Once again, once he had her attention, she could not look away. "Yes," he mused. "You have a _beautiful_ soul! Powerful too—I can _feel_ it!" He then let go of her and took a step back. His expression grew almost sad, as he eyed her and said, "I regret there's only one way to extract it from you."

What, her _soul_?

If she hadn't yet, Ariela now started to panic in earnest. Though she knew by now that it was futile, she struggled hard against her unforgiving binds.

"But hey!" Madanach said, pulling the dagger from his belt. "Maybe we can make it fun!" He moved yet closer, to stroke Ariela's hair with the blade. She was frozen in place as the King in Rags played with her locks. He traced the tip of the knife slowly down her cheek, over her jawline, and down her neck. All the while, her eyes were fixed on that embedded onyx jewel, such dark matte that it yielded no glimmer.

Madanach's dagger continued its way down, until it was stopped by the neckline of Ariela's tunic. He grabbed ahold of the chest part of the garment with his free hand, and the blade bit into the fabric. "Yes," he said, sucking in the drip of drool seeping out of the corner of his mouth. "I believe that I, at least, am going to enjoy this!"

Despite herself, she let out a whimper. It contained at least as much anger and disgust as it did fear.

The dagger stopped right before it reached her breast. Madanach withdrew it, and for a few seconds, his eyes assumed a vacant look. "Ah," he said, a fond smile arching his lips. "And I know _she_ will be pleased." He looked at Ariela and grinned wolfishly. "Oh yes indeed!" he concluded, then leaned back towards her to continue his contra-sartorial workmanship.

"You know," a voice interrupted the sinister proceedings, drawing a startled flinch from both the perpetrator and the would-be victim. "I once saw this play." Ariela and Madanach both turned to stare at the source of the disruption: a young man standing at the top of the stairs leading to the surface. "I'm sure you know what I speak of. Theatre, a dramatic display set forth by wandering bands of thespians and mummers. That sort of thing."

The man, who in fact upon closer examination was revealed to be but a boy, started to descend the stairs in a very unhurried manner while continuing his monologue. Ariela looked at Madanach, who simply stared, mouth agape, in stunned silence.

"Anyway," the boy said. He was tall and thin, dressed all in black, the hawkish nose and the shock of jet hair on top of the high forehead his most commanding features. He wore no armor. "So, in this play, there were several small stories told, tied together loosely by a common denominator or two—"

Madanach was shaken out of his stupor. He was enraged. "What is this?" he roared, backing a couple steps. As he raised his hands, Ariela felt a sort of electrical charge start to build around him and the temperature of the room rise an infinitesimal yet perceptible—at least to her—degree. "Who are you, and how dare you—"

Madanach's rage was cut short. The boy brought up a gloved hand; it emitted a glow, the air undulating around it. "Easy there, pop!"

To Ariela's astonishment, Madanach stopped dead in his tracks, freezing up completely, into something like an effigy in flesh.

" _And_ ," the boy continued, sauntering on down the steps, addressing his words, it seemed, to no-one in particular, "so, as the stories proceeded, whenever one of the main characters would get into a difficult situation—and that would happen a _lot_ —that it seemed it was impossible from them to get out of, they would bring out this . . . machine—a _huge_ contraption built of wood and wire—into which they'd attached a pulley—" The boy's eyes were theatrically wide as he gestured with his hands to pantomime the thing he was describing. "And with that pulley, they hoisted a wooden replica of one or another of the Divines—they had several—and that Divine would then enter the stage to miraculously release the main character from his or her predicament."

The boy shook his head. "It really was all quite ridiculous." He assumed a more serious and thoughtful expression. "Then, I hear, in one of their shows in Skyrim, they brought out Talos himself, and that was the last performance they ever had. Some say they moved on to other things, but personally I suspect those other things include shackles, a rack, and a good measure of solid thalmorian justice." He shrugged with an amused smirk. "Well, suppose the gallows are as good a stage as another. At least the audience will always be receptive!"

He stood beneath the stairs, looking from tied-up Ariela to frozen-still Madanach. "Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm recounting this tale now. Just felt appropriate, somehow, and perhaps might amuse you."

Only at this point did he take a more assessing look at the scene. "Hmm," he said, then walked to Ariela, looking her up and down. "Well, hello there!" He flashed a smile that in another circumstance might have been considered charming, but which in her current stage Ariela took a good deal of disquiet from. He gestured about with fanned out arms. "Imagine that: a fair maiden in a place like this."

Ariela just stared at the boy, unsure of how to react. After a while, him just staring at her, smiling in a way that Ariela ultimately judged to be non-threatening, she mustered enough courage to utter, "Cmmh ymmh gm m oomf hff." The wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth along with the rag keeping it in place, rendered her communication somewhat cumbersome. "Pmmmf?" she tried.

The boy nodded. "Ah, you don't say?"

Ariela rolled her eyes. Not another comedian! "Thhn nhh mhh tm mmhh!" she told him sternly.

The boy spread out his arms, eyes wide "My thoughts exactly!"

Ariela squeezed her eyes shut. Was this really happening?

"Ahhh hhhhh haaah," Madanach pitched in: a pained wheeze. Ariela opened her eyes, startled, but the old man was as suspended as ever; only his eyes had started to roll madly around, and a faint sound susurrated out of his open mouth.

The boy snapped his head around, irritated, to face the King in Rags. "Would you mind?" he snapped. "We were having a—" His expression softened. "Oh, pardon. How rude of me!" He held up a finger, looked at both of them in turn. "Just one minute."

"Let's see here." The boy started wandering around the room, eyeing the ground as if looking for something, all the while humming to himself. "Ah," he said finally, bent down and picked up a hefty beam of wood. He positioned himself behind Madanach, grabbed the beam with both hands from one end, wound it back, and took aim. "Sleep well!" he said cheerfully, then gave the King in Rags a hefty club on the back of his head.

A hollow clump sounded the cavern. Madanach's eyes rolled back into his head, but he remained upright in his frozen state. The boy raised a hand. There was a glimmer, and the old man collapsed on the ground, landing straight on his face.

"There," the boy said, satisfied. "That's better!" He skipped over the prone Madanach, and faced Ariela again "Now, where were we? Oh, right! You were about to say something?" he assumed an expectant frown, one long finger pressed on his full lips.

Ariela stared at the boy, incredulous. His features were regular, his narrow face a mix of delicate and solid, being at an age where sharp, masculine angles were rapidly encroaching upon the round and soft features of a child. His keen blue eyes peering from underneath dark, shapely, eyebrows emitted perpetual, slightly amused curiosity. He was, admittedly, striking in a certain boyish, immature way. But there was also something very familiar about him, Ariela thought. It aggravated her, but she simply could not put her finger on it.

He smelled, she took note, of flowers

"Alright," the boy said. "My apologies." He released the rag from around Ariela's mouth, and she spat out the wad of cloth.

Stretching her sore jaw, she studied the boy warily. "Thank you," she croaked.

"Don't mention it," he said, smiling "It's not every day I get to help out a pretty girl in trouble."

Against every rational bone in her body, Ariela could not help feeling just a tiny bit flattered, even if the situation was as far as possible from appropriate.

The boy then took notice of her torn tunic, staring at her bared chest, and she felt a re-emerging chill of discomfiture.

As he lifted his gaze, he must have noticed the look in her eyes, for he roused. "Don't worry!" he said, throwing up his hands with the palms held forward. "I've no intention to harm you." His expression was earnest. "Or doing anything else, either." Before Ariela even had time to react, he hastened to add, "Not that there's anything wrong with you; in fact you're quite lovely." Yeah, because _that's_ what she was worried about! But on he went. "I must admit, I rather have my eye on that other woman in your group. You know, the older one, the tall Nord with the attitude? Suppose I have a hopeless weakness for the dangerous type." He looked a touch embarrassed, but it was obviously an act. "You think . . ." he leaned closer. "You think I might have a chance?"

Ariela just stared at him, a look of genuine eagerness in his eyes. "Aren't there some slightly more urgent matters to consider?" she said.

The boy straightened, getting serious. "Yes, of course." He pulled a sharp-looking knife with a long, jagged blade out of his boot. "You're right, obviously." He hesitated, looked at the ropes, then at the knife. He put the knife back in his boot, squatted down and pressed his finger against the rope around Ariela's ankles. The rope yielded and came loose. The boy repeated the motion with the other ropes, and afterwards looked at the freed Ariela with a self-pleased expression on his face, visibly proud of his neat little trick.

_What a peculiar boy_ , Ariela thought, rubbing her sore wrists.

"Well, that was fun" he said. "What do you wanna do next?"

Ariela frowned. "Are you in your right mind? My friends are in danger, and you just fool around!"

He shrugged. "I saved _you_ , didn't I?"

That much was true, she had to admit. Though she still wasn't sure of what to make of him. "Yes. Yes you did," she said. "And I appreciate it. Thank you. Now, could you please help me find my friends?"

"Of course!" the boy beamed. "Thought you'd never ask!" He shuffled eagerly. "I just happen to know where they are, and what the Forsworn plan to do with them." He turned. "Come on! If we hurry we can get to them in time to save 'em."

He darted at the stairs, and Ariela followed. After the short climb, they ran through a narrower passage, then up another short flight of steps, to finally arrive at an iron door. Ariela had been correct in assessing their location as close to the surface.

The boy stopped at the door and looked at Ariela. "You just hang back now and let me take care of any necessary acts of heroism, alright?" Despite the genuine danger they were faced with, to Ariela, her new companion still gave the impression of a little boy playing at his games more than anything else. But he'd seemed plenty competent in what he was doing, so Ariela decided to place her trust in him. Although, at the same time she couldn't help wondering whether she'd wind up regretting it. She pushed aside all doubts for now and nodded.

"Excellent!" the boy said. Then he quietly opened the door.

Nothing much besides the chill valley breeze greeted them outside. The sun was still up, but had started it steady progression towards the horizon. Right up front, a deserted campsite. Behind it, a rocky hill sloping down into the valley. To their right, a steep flight of stone stairs ascending to where the high stone columns with the eagle-heads stood their indeterminable guard. The sight helped Ariela piece together their current positioning. She wondered whether her friends would still be up there.

The boy placed a finger on his lips and pointed up the stairs. They rose in groups of about a dozen steps a flight with a landing between each, and at least four or five flights to the top. A Forsworn guard stood on the second landing from the bottom. He was walking slowly, heading down. Ariela spied another guard on the next platform up, his back turned to them.

"Stay here," he whispered, then started up the stairs. Ariela squatted down, her eyes closely following the sneaking young mage. Right before he reached the first landing, he raised a hand, and the Forsworn's body emitted a faint glitter. The man, however, showed no sign of taking notice.

The boy approached, already so close Ariela was sure the guard was going to notice him and sound an alarm—in fact he probably should have already. But he just continued walking, casually, like nothing was out of the ordinary. Ariela balled her hands into nervous fists, watching the boy now standing tall right in front the guard who practically looked right through him. The boy pulled out the knife on his belt, flipped it blade-down, and drew it back. He then lurched forward and planted the knife in the Forsworn's eye. Ariela flinched. The man made no sound, just went all rigid. The boy caught him with his free arm, and quietly lowered him on the ground. The body was still twitching as the boy started towards the other guard. He waved at Ariela to follow. She bolted up, then squatted down at a safe distance.

She held her breath as the other Forsworn unsuspectingly waited for his approaching doom. She gave a silent prayer, dry lips moving unconsciously, that the man would not have enough time to turn before his killer reached him. Her prayers were answered, and the boy experienced no difficulty, grabbing the man by the head and slicing through his windpipe. Relief mixed with disgust in Ariela's mind as a muffled squeal escaped from the suffocating Forsworn's mouth, reaching all the way down to her, even with the boy's hand clapped in front of it. Was the sound actually coming through the slit in his throat?

_Don't think about it!_

The boy waited for the guard to finish dying, then hoisted the corpse above his head and tossed it off the staircase and down into the valley. Then he waved for Ariela to join him. She stood, feeling faint, then scuttled up the stairs.

The expression on the boy's thin features was nothing short of thrilled. "That was _fun_!" When Ariela gave him a horrified look, he frowned. "What?" he said. Then he waved a hand dismissively. "Oh come on, don't be such a prude!"

A _prude_? Well, if finding the joy taken out of brutally slaughtering people distasteful—to say the _least!_ —then a prude she was. She'd wear that label with pride. But she hadn't a mind to start arguing, and in truth no time for it either, as the boy beckoned for her to follow.

The final ascent was through three consecutive post-and-lintel stone gates that sort of resembled the stone monuments adorning certain ancient holy places. No doubt this place, too, was very old. The ground altered between stairs and gravel, and Ariela cringed at the latter crunching under their boots, the sound seeming magnified manifold in the silence.

Why _was_ it so silent?

Upon arriving at the third gate, Ariela started. The upper plane was teeming with Forsworn. Before she could get a better look, the boy pushed her behind the right-side column of the gate, himself scooting behind the left one. She peered carefully from behind the slab of stone, and her jaw dropped. _Oh,_ _brother_ _!_

 


	45. The Conflagration

Ariela gaped, her breath caught in her throat and her heart racing. Though, if she was perfectly honest, she probably should have seen this coming.

The Forsworn were standing around in disparate patches, some squatting, others perching on top of outcroppings. But all of their eyes were pointed to the same direction, and that was what had also caught the Scholar's attention. The three poles of wood that she'd noted upon their arrival? Well, their purpose became abundantly clear now. Runa, Erik, and Roggvar were tied to them, the ropes keeping them completely immobile. And, as in Ariela's case earlier, their potential objections were quelled by rags shoved in their mouths.

In front of them, then, was the single most abominable creature that she'd ever had the displeasure of laying eyes upon. Humanoid in stature, but with a posture so bent and a frame so impossibly gaunt, wiry, and shriveled—devoid of all fluidity, it seemed—that those features alone would have been enough to render its appearance utterly alien. But the exaggerated rugosity of it countenance, its grotesquely protruding chin and the lengthy and bent beak-like nose, complete with twisted hands and feet, which instead of toes and fingers sported long talons the length of a man's forearm, no one would have taken this female miscreation for anything natural.

A hagraven, warts and all.

Instinct screamed at her to calm her sensibilities, evoke all her knowledge of these abhorrent monstrosities, and to start taking notes on its patterns of behavior. Fear itself—and there was plenty of that, stirring up a dozen little tempests of panic within her—wouldn't perhaps have been enough to convince her to abandon such foolish over-ambition—given her natural inclinations and deep-seated conditioning—but what made it impossible for her to focus on anything so lofty as all-surpassing scholarly fieldwork, was the fact that these were her friends, albeit fairly recent ones.

And what _really_ got her riled up was what happened next. As the beast slowly moved from examining Roggvar tied to the furthermost pole, it now arrived at Erik on the middle one. It stuck its beak right close to the man, then moved its head slowly down his upper body, all the while sniffing loudly. Then it lifted its head back up, looked him straight in his repulsed and horrified face, and gave him a ghastly grin. Ariela's insides twisted. What was the foul thing going to do: _eat_ him?

Actually, now that she thought of it, that was most likely _exactly_ what it intended to do!

The fury of a woman watching her chosen man being molested by another female arose within her. And in addition to that, by all means an ill-fitting emotion, jealousy. This was a woman of sorts, after all, or at least had been. Even if one whose main fleshly interest in the human male came in the form of culinary enthusiasm. If anything, Ariela knew, she should have been scared for him. But no, of all things she was _jealous_!

A though flitted cross her mind. Was this the _she_ Madanach was mumbling about?

Her new companion had been staring at the proceedings with keen interest. A kind of curious enthusiasm like that of a little boy dissecting a live frog sparkled in his eyes, and he wore a faint smirk.

"What now?" Ariela whispered.

"Just _look at that_!" the boy said, not taking his eyes off the spectacle. "It's _hideous_!" If there was any disgust in his voice, it was drowned out by giddiness. His eyes turned to the Scholar. "Why have I not seen one until now?"

_Never mind that!_ Ariela thought. "Never mind that!" she hissed. "What are we going to _do_?"

"Hmm?" he said distractedly. "Do? Oh, right!" He turned to her and flashed the most mischievous of grins. "Watch this!"

_Oh brother, what now?_

The boy stuck his head out of its hiding and let out a whistle so loud it hurt Ariela's ears. "Hey, beautiful!" he called, waving a peppy hand. Ariela dared a peek, and saw the creature's ugly head whip in their direction. "Over _he_ -ere!" the boy sang. Then he retreated behind the column, and Ariela also hastily withdrew.

And not one moment too soon. A shower of flames in the form of explosive spheres struck the column behind which the boy skulked. This was accompanied by an ear-splitting screech of pure hatred and rage from the avian feminoid. Ariela let out an involuntary shriek as the heat of the fire touched her skin. It wasn't close enough to burn her, but the shock of such an attack was more than enough.

The boy, on the other hand, was still grinning. _A child,_ she thought.

When the onslaught ended, he leaped out of his hiding. "I see you have the hots for me!" he yelled, laughing, and Ariela felt the urge to slap her forehead. The boy waved beckoningly. "Come on then, lovely. Catch me if you can! And bring your friends!" He turned quickly to Ariela with a flourish of hand. Her body tingled all over with the light emanating from the hand. "You stay right here," he whispered.

The boy bolted down the stairs, twisted to look behind to ascertain he was followed, then continued on in a strange, bouncy kind of jazzed-up gait, all the while tittering to himself like some borderline maniac. He was soon enough followed by the now obviously quite incensed eyesore. As it passed right in front of Ariela, a certain divorced fascination intermingled with the cold twist of horror inside her. She stared at the traipsing-by abomination with a hand held over her mouth. The creature smelled of rotting flesh.

After the hagraven had passed, the Forsworn came swamping in its wake. There were about two dozen of them, all armed to the teeth. Their numbers included a couple of fighters who seemed scarcely human, what with their massively muscled, sinewy bearings and their angular way of walking, which give the impression of some undead monsters only brought back to life for one purpose: to kill.

Briarhearts, Ariela realized. She had read of such creatures but had never in a million years imagined ever coming face to face with one. Had no even really conceptualized them existing outside of books. But here was a pair of them now, the gaping holes in their chests evincing the strange plants with which their own hearts had been replaced. Ariela would have been ecstatic with intrigue had she not been so crippled with terror.

Then, as they were passing, one of the Briarhearts suddenly swung its head towards her. Underneath the antlered stag-scull helmet, nostrils flared like those of a predator catching scent. Ariela could swear that her heart stopped for a second there. But soon the moment passed, and the Forsworn continued as if nothing at all.

She let out the deepest of exhalations, and it came out fluttery and tattered. Thank Julianos for the boy and his magics!

Once the menacing convoy had passed, she ventured to step out from her hiding place for a look at her friends. A few Forsworn were left still guarding them, so there really wasn't anything she could do. Invisible though she might have been, the nasty savages would surely notice if she tried anything.

She felt at a loss. Clearly she was dependent on the help of the boy, but how could he possibly take on all those Forsworn in _addition_ to the hagraven? Had he simply meant to decoy them so that she could free her friends? Well, in that case his plan had availed nothing, for he'd failed to take into account their leaving guards behind. _She_ certainly couldn't defeat them!

After a moment of desperation, Ariela decided to ignore the advice given to her, and started down the steps at a brisk jog. She nearly tripped rushing down.

The Forsworn seethed below, some firing arrows, others joining the hagraven's efforts at hurling hissing, exploding fire bolts—all directed towards the still-running boy, whose prompts and taunts echoed in the valley, and together with the angry howls and cries of his assailants stirred up a wild cacophonous chorus. Ariela kept her distance from the heart of the commotion, and instead posted herself at the edge of a platform from where she could get a comprehensive view of the pandemonium below. The boy had jumped off the stairs and was running backwards down the hill, never making a single gesture of returning the aggression directed at him. It appeared as thought his main objective was to draw the horde after him. At that, he was successful, as the Forsworn throng were at his heel like cattle driven by dogs, the madly blaring, fire-spitting bird-woman in the lead.

But where was he leading them?

The answer came soon. The boy came to a halt, turned around, and gave a loud whistle. It was instantaneously answered by a mass of armored and well-armed individuals who now flooded out from behind the rocks below, and who evidently hailed from the underside of the valley where they'd been just waiting for the signal to attack.

Ariela frowned as she recognized the familiar red-and-gray colors of the soldier's attire. Imperial legionaries. What were they doing here?

The confusion caused by the unexpected sight, of the well-armed and battle-ready imperial troops charging at the just as belligerent Forsworn, was soon kicked out of the command-post it had briefly inhabited within her, by the firm boot of delight at the realization of what this display entailed. They were saved! There were at least as many of the imperials as there were Forsworn, and the former were, on average, better equipped, and indeed looked to immediately take the upper hand in the bloody transaction, hacking down the scantily-equipped savages without apparent difficulty, all in spite of the ferocious gusto with which the latter threw themselves to their unavoidable deaths.

Only the Briarhearts and the mages seemed to offer a more serious adversary. And doubtless so would have the hagraven, had the boy not taken upon himself to neutralize the bird-witch. He showered the horror with a fire-shower of his own, forcing it onto the defensive. He would not relent, just kept blasting flare-bomb after flare-bomb at the disgruntled thing, all the while proceeding towards it. Finally, upon reaching the hagraven, he quickly yanked his knife out of its place in his boot, lurched at the creature, seizing it by its patchy hair, and sank the tip of the knife into its throat.

The boy tackled the hagraven down on the ground, pinning it down with his knee, and started sawing at the neck. After some dozen or so seconds, he raised the creature's severed head, dangling the blood-dripping hideousity by its stringy hair. He grinned triumphantly, lowered the head to his own level, and planted a kiss on its withered cheek. Then he wound the hand back, and threw the head at an impossible velocity at a Forsworn mage. The impact was so hard that the ill-fated man was thrown back several feet, slamming against a boulder and falling down motionless.

The boy gazed up at Ariela, smiled and waved. He faced the stairway, then _leapt_ , flying at least a dozen feet in the air before landing on the platform below the one Ariela was on. He then sprinted up to meet her.

"Hi," he said, grinning. "Surprise!" The picture of self-congratulation.

Ariela opened her mouth, but the boy silenced her. "No time for questions now," he said. "I believe you had buddies to rescue?"

Ariela nodded mutely. She took one more glance at the battle, still very much in favor of the Imperials, before joining the boy at a jog up to the uppermost landing.

Five Forsworn warriors were still waiting up there. They were clearly unnerved, but showed no inclination of backing down. Ariela hung back as the boy strode in the opening and the Forsworn closed on him like jackals on their prey. "I don't suppose you want to talk this over?" he suggested sportively. They attacked. "I hoped as much," he said with a wolfish grin.

The first two to reach the kid brought their swords down simultaneously. He upraised his hands, and the blades stopped cold, for a second hanging in the air as if stuck to an invisible cobweb made of cement, while their owners pulled at them powerlessly with puzzled expressions on their faces. Then the boy pushed forward, and both aggressors flew back some dozen feet, landing on their backs.

Another warrior, spinning wildly, wielding two bone-hilted swords, followed right behind. She proceeded rapidly, a whirlpool of blades, and would have doubtless cut down any adversary more ill-prepared; but the boy, looking almost bored, simply motioned his hands at his assailant's feet, then pulled back as if pulling on a rope, and her feet were swept from underneath her. The boy thrusted out one hand, then drew it back, and the Forsworn was lifted off the ground and pulled towards him. Her eyes were wide with horror, and she had no time even to react let alone defend herself, when the boy gripped her by the head with both hands and effortlessly snapped her neck. The crack of the breaking cervical vertebrae was a loud and nauseating one.

The two Forsworn still untouched, a man and a woman, hung back, sharing uncertain looks and clearly reluctant to make a move against this unexpected foe wielding alien magic. The first pair, on the other hand, had picked themselves off the ground and were now closing on their young aggressor determinately, albeit cautiously. At the same time, Ariela caught movement in her peripheral vision. She looked up at the ritual dais on which yet another Forsworn, hidden till now, was aiming an arrow at the boy's turned back.

"Hey!" she cried. The boy turned at her, annoyance in his eyes. She pointed at the archer. "Over there!"

He caught sight of the surprise attack, just as the arrow sprang. Ariela flinched, but the boy made a simple sweeping gesture, and the arrow flung out of its course and went clattering on the crags. The Forsworn immediately nocked another arrow onto the bowstring, but the boy repeated the pulling gesture again, and the helpless archer was yanked off his feet and down towards the young mage. The Forsworn froze right in front of the boy, held back by his upheld right hand, hovering in the air in a most unexpected manner, arms and legs piteously flailing.

In the midst of the commotion, the two warriors saw their chance arrive, and charged at the boy's rear. He, however, was not to be outmaneuvered. He spun around while at same time lunging his hand forward, hurling the man within his force field at the aggressors. One of the unfortunate warriors got the full impact of his projectile brethren, bones cracking against bone, both crashing onto the ground, remaining dead-still.

The astonishment over the display of his brothers' treatment damped the edge of the other attacker's charge. The boy caught him in the invisible yoke of his left hand, pushed forwards forcefully, and the Forsworn was tossed back at a violent speed. His flight ended in the stone wall of the other tower. The loud crack resulting and the absolute lifelessness of the way he slumped to the ground made it obvious he would not be getting back up again.

The male one of the two remaining Forsworn had at this time found his courage—or, perhaps more likely, had gotten tired of waiting for his impending demise and instead simply decided to face it in his stride—and was in turn charging. The way he held his two blades did not appear particularly well-formed, as if he knew that his attack would have little more than symbolic value. Even his battle-cry sounded sullied with resignation.

The boy did not offer disappointment. He stopped the attacking man dead in his tracks with an upturned palm, then dropped the hand, forcing the ensnared Forsworn to his knees. The boy took two steps toward his kneeling target, stopping right in front of him. His other hand shot up, and a discharge of fire shot out of that palm. The man shrieked as the boy held the blunt of the showering conflagration to his upper body, all the while keeping him firmly in the hold of his arcane grasp.

The man's clothes caught flame. The skin of his face changed colors—first to red, then purple, and then black—the fat underneath melting and bubbling, slowly peeling back to reveal the grinning skull underneath. His eyes boiled and then started to shrivel. A dark liquid oozed from within, running down what was left of his ruined face.

The man's screaming lasted much longer than Ariela would have thought possible, and most of his outer flesh resembled charcoal before life visibly left him. Then, what was left of him collapsed onto the ground, smoldering. The smell of burning flesh in the air was acrid and pervasive; and that coupled with the very vivid image in her mind of what just took place, caused Ariela to no longer be able to hold back, and she spewed on the ground in front of her.

She knew she would not soon forget the sight of the man incinerating. Why, _oh_ _why_ , had she not looked away?

The last remaining Forsworn fighter did not appear much less dismayed. Though doubtless more familiar with gruesome violence such as the incident she'd just witnessed, she was still visibly struggling to keep a brave, confrontational face. Obviously knowing that there was nothing she could do to prevent a similar thing happening to herself, the mask of courage she wore was rapidly cracking.

"Well, dear," the boy said, smiling as affably as a fox might at a hare. "Are you gonna try to attack me now, too?"

The woman hesitated, as if estimating her chances, but made no move.

"Well?" the boy asked, cocking his head. "You don't have to, you know." His tone was nearly warm now; paternal, even, if such a thing was possible for such a young lad.

The woman was breathing rapidly, her nostrils aflare. Her entire comportment slowly slumped as she no doubt reached the inconsolable conclusion to the assessment of her chances. She dropped the two-hand sword she'd held, then quietly shook her head.

"That's a smart girl," the boy said. The "girl" was probably older than him by at least a quarter century. "You can go now," he said, motioning with his hand as though shooing off a stray dog.

The woman stared at him, her eyes incredulously agape. "R-really?" she said in a distinctly Nord accent.

The boy nodded reassuringly. "Sure!" He gestured at the tents behind the woman's back, set up around the ledge, behind them the breath-stopping mountainous scenery. "Get what you need and make your escape. You can be my messenger: tell your Forsworn friends what happened here today."

The woman looked confused. "But . . . why? And what should I say? Who _are_ you?"

The boy grew impatient. "Never mind why!" he snapped, and the woman flinched. "Say what you want, and none of your business!" He hawked, spat to one side. "There, those are my answers. Now, skedaddle!" He repeated his dog-shooing wave.

The woman performed a gesture that was something like a curtsy. "Thank you," she blurted, then turned about to head towards one of the tents.

"Oh, wait." the boy said, then, as if having forgotten some essential detail. The woman turned back inquiringly, the blooming joy of her unexpected salvation spiked by the shadow of dread. The boy smiled widely and so infectiously that the woman seemed to be in a process of answering it, when he added, "I changed my mind."

At least three emotionally separate expressions vacillated on the woman's countenance in the short time it took the boy to extend his hand. The next moment she was aloft, sent screaming off the ledge in a high and steady arc. The sound of her terrified cry grew fainter and more distant until coming to an abrupt end.

The boy started laughing, as if he'd just gotten the gist of a joke.

Ariela was still on her knees, and although she harbored no love for these people who had somewhat less then hospitably hosted her, she was deeply and utterly horrified by what she'd just witnessed. In a way, the scene with the woman had been even worse than watching a man's face melt, though that quite obviously had been horrendous enough in its own right. But this—this she could not even begin to compartmentalize as far as acts of brutality went. This was simply . . . _evil_!

The boy kept hooting, bent double and slapping at his thigh. "She though . . ." he managed between laughs. "She thought . . ." And he kept cracking up, howling in a high-pitched note.

Appalled, Ariela stood up and walked to a dead Forsworn to pick up his sword. It was heavier than she'd expected. She looked at the still-laughing young killer who seemed to pay no attention to her. Curving her lip, she turned around and went to see to her bound-up friends.

Evidently her invisibility had expired, for her companions started moving about and vehemently mumbling into their gags. In addition to the three attached to the poles, Ania had been left lying on the ground off to the side, as if discarded from whatever had been intended for the rest. She first went to Erik, arousing a disgruntled complaint from Runa, which she ignored.

"Oh, thank goodness you're alright!" Erik exclaimed once the rag was out of his mouth.

Ariela had to admit that his concern felt good. She was glad to see him safe and sound as well. She smiled, pleased to find out that she still could. "I couldn't let that creature eat you up, now could I?"

Erik's smile was unbecomingly bashful on that rugged face.

Runa cleared her throat. She was giving Ariela the petulant eye. She then looked significantly down at the dirty rag still in place in her mouth, making a noise sounding something like " _would you mind_?"

Ariela sighed. Guess it was time to release that mouth once more. So she ungagged the woman.

Runa spat, then smacked her mouth in distaste, her nose wrinkled. "Finally," she said. "I think the thing was made of Madanach's old undies."

Ariela rolled her eyes, trying to stifle a smirk. She then went to undo Roggvar's gag, who muttered only curt thanks, then silently moped. Ariela proceeded to ungag Ania on the ground, then went back to Erik, and, with the Forsworn sword, started to clumsily hack at the ropes around him.

"Careful!" he said.

"Oh, never mind me, I can wait."

Ariela once more ignored Runa. Erik grinned at that. Roggvar still sulked. Clearly the man's dignity had been badly bruised.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?"

At once, everyone's eyes turned to the mage boy, who had evidently recovered from his self-induced temporary inoperativeness. He walked, arms crossed, to Ariela's side, eyeing Runa with an impish curve to his lips. "In a bit of a bind, are we?" For someone so young and vivacious, his puns were remarkably old and stale.

Even Runa seemed to see it best to ignore it. "Well, that was quite a performance," she said. Intermingled with her usual irony was a good measure of genuine appreciation. She had not seen the whole thing, however.

The boy gave a nonchalant shrug. "Just took care of what needed to be taken care of." He pulled out his knife and started to swiftly cut Runa's ties. While he worked, his eyes lay firmly on her bosom, the protruding nature of which was evident with her chest plate removed.

"See anything you like?" the Nord said, without too much emotion one way or another. The boy simply looked her in the eye and smiled. Runa neither returned the smile nor looked away.

Ariela was still struggling with the rope around Erik's legs, when the boy cut the last of Runa's binds. "There you go, old girl," he said, chipper. "Much better, eh?"

Runa frowned. " _Old girl_?" she sounded irked. "You've got some nerve— _boy_!"

His answer to Runa's indignation was ever wider a grin; sort of like he'd just pulled on her ponytail.

Ariela did not want to see the argument escalate "He _did_ just save our lives," she reminded Runa, though saying it disgusted her just a little.

Unexpectedly, the boy caught Runa's hand in his. ""Helping out a beautiful woman is ever my pleasure," he said, and tried to put his lips to the hand.

Runa yanked the hand free, scowling. "You may have saved us," she said. "And I, for one, thank you for it. But 'less you're looking to be slapped around, I'd advise you to keep your hands and your lips to yourself."

Ariela had finally gotten Erik freed, and was now looking at the two standing eye to eye, as if measuring each other. The other frowning, the other sporting a provocative sneer. _How much one is like the other_ , she found herself thinking. As the moment lasted, she started to feel a growing sense of desperation, lost for anything to say to get either to relent.

"Oh, that's right." Came the redeeming, crabby rumble from behind her. "Nobody mind old Roggvar. I'm just fine where I am."

"Sorry!" she said. She made to release the unhappy man, but the boy broke his stare with Runa and halted her.

"Let me," he said, smiling as if to a child. Ariela was more than happy to let him, though. Erik then took the sword from her and went to the aid of Ania.

"That's some magic you were wielding!" said Roggvar, as the boy was cutting through his restraints. The considerably younger male's reply was a shrug. "I ain't ever seen magic like that," the big man continued probingly.

"Yeah," the boy said, finishing with his cutting. "And has it not occurred to you there might be magic in the word that you haven't seen before, old man." The timbre of his voice was less than amicable.

"Who taught you?" Erik asked from where he was sawing at ties around Ania's ankles. The small woman's expression was nothing short of crestfallen.

"That, my friend, is none of your business." The boy was smiling still, but there was no geniality left in his note. The implication was clear: there would be no further discussion.

"We're still going to need that book," Runa reminded.

Right. Ariela had nearly forgotten their initial objective. It hardly seemed terribly pressing now.

"What book?" asked the boy. Then his expression cleared. "Ah, I bet I know which one you mean." He gazed up the dais, and raised a finger. "Just a moment, please." Then he hopped on one of the buttresses, and scaled it as nimbly as a squirrel.

"Who _is_ this kid?" Runa asked as they watched him scurry.

"I don't know," Ariela replied, then added, "and I don't know if I want to, either" under her breath.

"Did you see the stuff he was pulling?" Roggvar enthused. "It was like . . ." And he mimicked what he'd seen of the boy's antics, waving his hairy arms around wildly, complementing the pantomime with the necessary oral impression of the fight, spittle spraying onto his scraggly beard. He laughed. "It was amazing!" At least he'd recovered from his embarrassment-induced funk.

_Yeah,_ Ariela thought, a cold nausea marauding in her stomach. _You don't know the half of it._

After a short while, the boy's self-satisfied features appeared beside the eagle head on the central buttress. He was brandishing a black-covered tome in one hand. "This what you're looking for?" In his other hand he held some dark disc-shaped object. He looked at it, as if just realizing he was still holding it. He then pocketed the object swiftly, cried, "Catch!" and tossed the book down, its pages flapping violently in the wind.

Ariela cringed. That was no way to treat old books! But luckily Runa caught the book before it hit the ground, and it stayed in one piece. Without looking at it, the Nord passed it on to Ariela.

Its antiquity was plain to see, but the tome was in good condition. The binding was obviously of good quality, holding the pages in place indubitably as steadfast as it had when it had been brand new. In the old days, Ariela knew, things were made to last, and there had been amble appreciation for the written word. Embossed on the cover was the book's title, written in characters she was not familiar with, but which were exactly like the ones the Orcish librarian had written down for her.

She looked up. "This is it." she said, then hesitated before adding, "Thank you." Despite her feelings regarding the way he'd conducted himself, she had to admit that this expedition would have ended in utter disaster without the enigmatic youngster. She herself would be dead—or perhaps turned into some sort of undead slave for the twisted old Forsworn king. A shudder ran through her at the thought.

The boy's smile did not carry any trace of malicious sadism, or even his typical self-congratulatory mirth, but was instead rather innocent, earnestly delighted even. "No problem!" he said brightly. "Hope it turns out to be a good read." Then the mischievous edge returned to his smirk. "After all, it would be a shame if after all this trouble you ended up being _bored_ to death!"

Ariela shook her head lightly. Next to her, Runa snorted.

"Well," he said. "I think it's about time I take my leave. I've got someplace else I need to be." He made a gesture with his hand, like tipping an invisible hat. "It's been a pleasure. Especially meeting you, fair lady!" he was looking at Runa saying this, and she replied with another snort. "Uh oh." His regard switched towards the stairway leading down to the valley. "Looks as though my friends are headed this way. You folks better get going, lest you wanna stay and answer some awkward questions. Though it may already be a little late."

All heads turned to look toward the stone gate at the top of the steps, where the helmets of two legionaries bobbed up and down with their carriers' leisurely approach. Ariela turned back to the boy. "Couldn't you—" But the dais was empty. He was gone. "Damn!"

"Well, should we make a run for it?" Runa asked.

"I, for one, am not afraid of a bunch of Imperial cravens!" Roggvar thundered, making a fist. Did this man like anyone?

"Hey, you there!" a voice called then.

Too late.

The two Imperial soldiers, likely ranking officers, approached them ata wary step, holding their weapons at the ready and their faces grim. "This is official Imperial business," the other declared. "State your business for being here. And no sudden movements!"

Tension held everyone in place. Runa, though unarmed, was squeezing her hands into fists and gritting her teeth in a way bespeaking a display of aggression waiting in the wings. Ariela hoped the woman would not do anything stupid—or, in fact, even open up her mouth, which would have counted just the same.

The tension was broken, however, by none other than Roggvar, albeit a touch unexpectedly. He slid from between Ariela and Runa, raised his empty hands conciliatorily, and aired a broad smile. "Friends!" he exclaimed. "Boy, are we ever glad to see _you_!"

The legionaries traded uncertain looks, and did not make any move to lower their weapons. Indeed, the other one pointed his sword at the nearing jovial giant, snapping, "Keep your distance, citizen!"

Roggvar came to an abrupt halt, still holding his bear-arms in the air. "Alright, alright. No reason to get excited."

"What are you doing here?" demanded the other soldier.

"Well," Roggvar started, slowly lowering his hands. "It just so happens we were abducted and held hostage by these damn wild-folks!" He spat on the ground to underline his disdain—doubtless a gesture with altogether genuine emotion behind it. His smile then spread out as broad as his bearded face allowed. "And here you are to save us." He managed a little crack of his voice, so as to evoke a sense of honest affect. "Thank you!" His voice nearly gave, gripped by such surge of emotion.

The men shared looks again, expressions softening to some degree. They appraised the rest of this amicable and impassioned giant's retinue: the spindly young scholar, not exactly the picture of threat; the muscular warrior with an honest face; the small woman in the background . . . Only the sight of Runa, for reasons unclear, drew the other soldier's brow into a brief furrow. Ultimately, though, they seemed to arrive at the conclusion that the band possessed no real threat. They slowly lowered their swords, keeping them unsheathed.

"Haven't head of the Forsworn abducting people in such large groups before," the more talkative of the soldiers said, still eyeing Roggvar with some suspicion. "Especially able-bodied looking folks as yourselves. No doubt you were also armed?"

Roggvar nodded consentingly. "Well, you've gotta carry some protection of course!"

"Right," the soldier said. "I'm sure that's all they were for." He assumed a small, sarcastic smile. "So, I take it that you just happened to get lost in an area well known for Forsworn turf, near a fortress packed with the bastards, a bunch of weapons on you _just to protect yourselves_. And this is where you end up. Am I getting this right?"

Roggvar's front faltered a trifle then. "Well, now, see the thing is—"

"Who was the boy?" Runa chimed in. Ariela felt herself clenching up.

At first, the soldier looked annoyed by the interruption, but then his expression grew confused. "Boy?"

"You know, the one that led you here."

The soldier opened his mouth to answer, then frowned as if having no idea what the answer was going to be. He shot an inquisitive look at his partner, who mirrored the expression. "Um, who are you talking about, citizen?"

Ariela, to her own surprise, pitched in, fanning her arms. "Well _someone_ led you here! Why are you here in the first place?"

The soldiers looked at each other with inconvenienced apprehension. Clearly neither could enlighten the other. The one doing most of the talking solved the embarrassing incongruence by clearing his throat decisively, then reaffirming his earlier sternness. "We'll be the ones asking the questions here!"

Runa rolled her eyes.

The quieter legionary stepped up, sheathing his sword. "Look, no one wants any more trouble than we've already had. If you good folks could just explain to us why you are here, and we can all move on."

The sterner man seemed slightly irked by his comrade's leniency. He did, however, also sheathe his weapon, but not before giving the suspects an authoritative glare. "Yes," he said, like a surly echo. "Let's get this cleared out, as we don't have all day." The day, of course, was already nearly over. "You'd better give us a convincing account, or we're hauling the lot of you to Markarth for closer questioning."

"Oh, not to worry," Roggvar said, daring to approach the soldiers again. He carefully put his beefy arms around the shoulder of each—which, after passing apprehension, they accepted—and gently turned them round, starting to lead them back to the direction they came from. "I have a perfectly rational explanation to answer _all_ of the questions troubling you."

Runa and Erik shared looks, unsure what their next move should be. Roggvar ushered the bemused imperial soldiers ahead of him, and gave a quick, impelling look back at his comrades. He nodded toward the towers. " _Go_ ," he mouthed.

The companions didn't have to be urged twice; though, upon embarking, Runa caught the sight of her blades leaning against a rock and made a quick lurch to grab them. Erik, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at peace with leaving his axe behind, so long as his hide was out of harm's way.

Ariela and Ania started up the stairs, but Erik and Runa hung back, wanting to see what the big man was planning. Ariela then elected to linger with them, curiosity gaining the upper hand. It was still just Roggvar and the two soldiers there; none of the other imperials had ascended from the place of battle.

Roggvar chatted with the Imperials in an unhurried manned, his hands over their shoulders, walking very slowly. Then, suddenly, he grasped each of the men by the back of their helmets, and violently bashed their heads together. The impact of iron on iron made quite a bang, and the two soldiers slumped, limp, onto the ground.

Roggvar spun around remarkably fast for such a robust fellow, and rushed at his friends in long, fervent strides. The expression on his countenance was rather urgent. With his brown eyes wide, he cried, "Flee, you fools!"


	46. The Ruin

_Told you it was foolish to try to go against my will. And look at you now, boy. Look at you now._

_You're not my father. My father is dead. Who are you?_

Laughter. _Who? Why, you fool, I am_ you _! Who else!_

_You lie! You lie . . ._

Laughter.

Indifferent to the screaming pain in the joints of his arms, Merard hung limp in his binds, the rope biting into the skin on his wrists. Since the departure of the Nightingale and his crony, he'd had some time to think. Thoughts that he did not welcome.

What was it that he had sought to do? It had, in the end, been obvious to him that the Nightingale was not a man to be fooled. Too wily and untrustworthy by far. But was that it? Or had he sought to yet hold on to his scheme of revenge, unable to let go after all of these years despite all of his self-convincing to the contrary?

So had he planned to betray Shadya in the end?

No! He had wanted to get her to safety. Had she waited at Falkreath, and had he ultimately been unable to meet her there, she would have known to run. She'd still held to the counterfeit gem. Chances were she'd have been able to fence it to her employer. Chances were, whoever this "Bosmer of no significance" was, he had not the discerning eye necessary to tell the difference. And in any case, it was unlikely he had posed the danger that the Nightingale did.

_Seems to me you thought you could have it both ways. Poor fool._

"Be quiet!" Merard snarled.

But those words had stung. As only unwelcome truths could.

He forced himself to look at Shadya. The blood had crusted onto her front, the pool underneath her congealed. Her soul was far away from him now. For someone who had spent his entire life alone, he'd never felt lonelier.

Whatever he'd tried to accomplish, he had failed. It might as well had been his own hand on the grip of that dagger.

Just another corpse to lay at the Nightingale's feet.

The man had to pay.

_He must die_ , Merard thought.

_He must die._

But how could he manage that now?

Helpless rage and desperation at once seized him, and he closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do. He had been defeated, humiliated—and soon enough what was left of him would be scoured away by the man to whose killing he had dedicated his existence. A wasted existence at that. All the wasted effort. All that he had learned, the magic, the art of violence that he'd perfected. All for naught. Painful and slow death at the hands of his nemesis would be a just and appropriate punishment for this failure. This failure that was his life. Then, once and for all, his each and every high and mighty philosophical idea would be shown for what it truly was worth. Naught but—

Suddenly Merard's eyes snapped open. From the stairway carried the shuffling sound of heavy footsteps. Whoever was coming, they were in no hurry about it. In fact, the steps sounded almost inebriated. A sauced bandit coming down to have his fun? More than one? He could only discern one pair of feet.

He looked up at his bound hands, twisting them out of reflex—but of course they were not going to come loose. He winced at the pain in his skin brought about by the motion. It occurred to him to passingly wonder why it was that having a mage's hands bound rendered him unable to cast spells. He'd never questioned it before, simply accepted it as a matter of course.

Well, whatever the reason, it changed nothing. There was nothing he could do.

The footsteps were cut short, sounded as though the one walking stumbled. But soon they continued. Yes, it certainly seemed that whoever this was, was drunk. Or in skooma. In any case, it likely didn't bode well.

Then, when the originator of the steps finally staggered into view, Merard frowned. It was indeed one of the bandits. Despite the unsteady walk, however, the man did not look drunk. Rather . . . confused. The bandit started at the prisoner for a moment, as though trying to figure out what it was that he was seeing. Then he looked as though he were trying to say something; but upon opening his mouth, no words came out. Only blood. A string of crimson drool down his chin and then, with a cough, a spray spattering on the floor. Then he collapsed onto his face. There was a dagger sunk to its hilt in his upper back.

Merard blinked at the bandit's corpse in a state of perplexity, when he discerned another, markedly jauntier sound of steps. Soon another figure came into view, stopping by the inert form of the dead man for long enough to retrieve the weapon, and then, wiping the dagger's blade with a kerchief, switching his sprightly regard to the suspended, nonplussed Merard.

A familiar face.

"Well!" the young man—no, _boy_ —said, visibly delighted. "Fancy seeing a friendly face!"

Merard gaped. It was the kid from before. The one he'd encountered during his ride across the mountains. What was he doing here? He knew there had been something odd about the boy! How was he linked with the Nightingale?

"Well, it's nice to see you too," the boy said, as Merard kept his silence. His attention then went to Shadya. "And what's this then?" He walked up to the dead Khajiit, clutched a handful of fur on the top of the head to pull it back. Revealing the grisly gash at the neck, the gaping, deep red yet bloodless incision.

Merard had to look away.

The clicks of the boy's tongue accompanied the shaking of his head. "Well," he said. "So much for nine lives, huh?"

Merard felt a wave of . . . something. He squeezed his eyes shut, blotting out all passion.

"What's up with you?" asked the boy, letting Shadya's head drop. He walked in front of Merard, taking another glance at the dead female, and a light of comprehension flashed amid the mirth in his blue eyes. "Ah, I see. So you found yourself some ta—"

"Don't," Merard grated, fixing a blazing gaze upon the boy, "say it!"

The boy's eyes went wide, although not, it was evident, out of alarm. "Alright, alright. Geez—touchy are we?" He glanced at Shadya anew, and considered. "You know, as nice as a little puss—"

"Just cut me loose!"

The youngster grinned. "Alright, old man."

As he then proceeded to hack at the heavy rope around Merard's wrists, Merard, to his consternation, felt once more the strange _absence_ about the boy. As though there was a void where the pulsating heat of magica was supposed to be. And not the sort you might expect to sense in a magically inept individual, either. With a Dull, the signature was quite simply just that— _dull_. But this kid definitely had an edge to him, one you could easily nick yourself on if you were not careful. Yet, the absence . . . It was unsettling.

The very moment his hands finally came free—which nearly caused him to topple—another thing then reoccurred to him. The young man, the Breton. He had carried this exact same vacuous signature. And had in general shared an uncanny likeness in comportment.

There was certainly a link of some kind between the two. But what?

Well, they were not the same person, at least. That much was clear. This kid seemed less obviously wicked. And then again, in his way . . . _more_.

In any case, less predictable by far.

"Whaddaya looking at?" the boy asked.

"You," Merard grunted. "Who are you?"

He smiled. "A friend in need."

_Obviously._ "What are you doing here? Were you following me?"

"Now, don't get ahead of yourself there, pops. Just 'cause I happened upon you earlier don't mean I got some crush on you or somethin'. Jus' here by chance is all. Adventure, 'member?"

_Stop talking as if you grew up with hay and shit between your toes, you cosseted little imp!_

"Stop staring at me like you trying to bore a hole into my skull," the boy said. "It's creepy."

Merard glared at him a moment longer, then, suppressing a headshake, switched to the dead bandit. "What of the others?"

The boy shrugged. "No others. Snuck in unseen, this here the only swingin' cock I stumbled 'cross."

"Shanked him in the back did you?"

The boy's eyes narrowed. "I ain't no coward, sir. Posed him couple a poignant question first. Warbled like a gods-damned songbird he did." He shrugged. " _Then_ I shanked him in the back."

"Questions? Such as?"

The kid's grin was shrewd. "Oh, just where our beloved Nightingale gone to. I dunno, maybe somethin' you'd be curious 'bout s'well." He shrugged again. "In any case, the fella brought the knife upon himself. The gods-damned no-good lying sack of shit that he was."

"What are you talking about?"

The boy blew air out of his lips dismissively. "The horseshit he tried to feed me. I mean, young I may be, but a bloomin' fool I ain't. Taught him that much, at least." He hawked and spat on the corpse.

"What'd he say?"

"Ah, never mind that. You don't wanna waste—"

"Tell me!" Merard barked.

The boy eyed him speculatively for some seconds. "Aye. Well, suit yourself."

And then he told him.

Some minutes later, Merard stepped out into the cool air of the darkening evening. His entire body abuzz with the seething, churning magica. Pure Will, embodied. The anger enfolding him made it oh so much stronger, enough so that he could have reduced this whole damn ruin of a city to rubble. He bared his teeth. He could almost _taste_ the blood that was going to flow.

"Where is everybody?" said the boy, stepping out behind him.

Merard darted him a febrile look. "You stay here!" Without waiting for a reply, then, he set out toward the gate through which he'd last entered. Drawn forth by the distinct aura of life thereabout.

With every step he took, he felt stronger, more certain. No sign left now of the trepidation, the terror, the dejection that he'd felt down there in the keep's dungeon. The weakness that he had allowed to contaminate him. The utterly unheard-of softness. Never again would he allow such things to get to him.

_That's the spirit, son!_

"Shut the fuck up!" he growled.

No, he would not be taking _that_ either. It was going to be a whole different him from now on. It would be _his_ word and _his_ will that would set the path henceforth. Woe to the fool who got in his way.

Speaking of which . . . He spied his horse, tethered near the gate the same as last time, and about the same perimeters, a host of bandits. His strides lengthening, flames erupted about his hands squeezed into fists. He felt about to burst with energy—with the destructive heat of the magica, his Will, flowing, seething through him.

The nearmost bandit, a Nord male, swung round upon hearing his heavy footsteps scraping gravel. Merard threw out his right hand just as the man was about to raise the alarm. The cry was converted into a shriek as a fire bolt the size of his head struck him in the middle of his chest. It was short-lived, however, and was gone by the time the bandit's smoldering corpse hit the gravel by the gate ten paces away.

He took the time to note each and every shocked face now turned to him. Six in total. Taking their number, knowing not one would live to greet the dawn, he felt a dark pleasure the like of which he could not readily recall. Feeling alive in a way that he perhaps never had before. He was death incarnate—and seeing the bandits, he could tell that they knew it as well as he did. He grinned savagely, and saw to his pleasure at least one of them flinch.

As almost a side-thought, he noted that the young Breton did not number among them. Too bad. _Born and raised in the Imperial City_ . . . bullshit! You could hear a mile away the kid's Camlorn accent. Where Merard was from, Camlornian was a byword for highfaluting, incestuous cunt. So far no evidence to the contrary.

As though coordinated, the dazzled bandits exploded into motion. Merard hurled one flaming sphere at the one man on the gate's battlements, sending him screaming into the night, and with his other hand, another one at a woman attempting a desperate charge at him. She hadn't yet finished toppling screaming onto the ground before he had already flung out another pair, each finding a target.

Four down, in the time that it took for him to blink once. This was not a fight by any measure of the word. Just lambs lined up for the slaughter. He almost pitied them.

The fifth bandit had just enough time to dash behind a lone smokestack before Merard could fire another one. The sixth one had managed to temporarily slip away, but he could feel the woman's presence close by. Her time would come soon enough.

Then, just as Merard was about to advance on the man pitifully cowering behind the tilted stack of stones, he caught movement in the right of his peripheral vision. He wheeled in that direction, arm thrusting out. But before the projectile had a chance to erupt from his hand, a blue crackling serpent from behind his back struck at the fellow attempting the ambush. Agony and surprise vied in those blue eyes as the bandit's body spasmed in the fold of the undulating string of lightning. The man was pushed to one side by the force of the assault, and as he hit the turf the spark of life had already abandoned his smoking carcass.

Merard turned his head to scowl at the contently grinning boy. "Thought I told you to leave off!"

It was noteworthy, however, that his suspicions were all at once confirmed. The boy _was_ a mage. But that voidness. Where did it come from? And what was it that drew together this young man and that other?

Although still disquieted, he pushed all questions and uncertainties away.

The boy shrugged. "Just thought I'd help is all."

"I don't need your help! This does not concern you."

"Fine," the youth said, throwing up his hands—though not exactly appearing to care much one way or another. "Have it your way. I'll just be taking my leave then."

Merard gave a curt nod, to which the boy replied with an ironic little bow. "You have yourself a pleasant rest of the night toasting bandits and chasing will-o'-the-wisps. Farewell!" Then he spun around and, at a brisk run, disappeared into the keep's courtyard.

The groan of metal and wood caused Merard's head to whip back toward the gate. The two remaining bandits had seen their opportunity arrive, and were jointly about to flee. The woman had just slipped out from the crack in the gate; but before the male one had a chance to follow after her, Merard's fireball hit him in the back. The impact caused the bandit to slam into the gate, his helmetless head crunching loudly against the planks.

The woman's frantic footfalls sounded outside the gate, drawing away into the forest. Merard glanced at his tethered horse and grinned. No, a little hunt did not sound bad at all.

Some minutes later he was riding hard towards the northeast. The bandit woman's blood stained his clothes. With her being the last one and all, he had granted her the mercy of avoiding the flame, and had instead opened the arteries at her groin with his dagger. She'd bled out even before he had remounted.

Now, even the most immediate past melted away. His mind, his intention, were once more sharply focused. Driven. Singular.

_I can't begin to tell you how glad I am to at last see you like this again. Shall I congratulate you on account of beating off those doubts of yours? Your final remaining set of fetters; the last thing holding you back. Now, at long last, you ride towards your destiny! To become what you were always meant to be. To claim what is rightfully yours. The_ power _! The power which—_

"Shut up!" Merard snarled. "I'm done listening to you—whoever you are. Even if I'm just talking to myself here. I'm going to take my mind back, do you hear me?"

_You keep telling yourself that, boy._

"I'm telling _you_. Now— _be silent_!"

_We shall just see about that . . ._ There was the sound of mocking laughter. But it soon faded to give way to silence.

_What was it that I thought I could do? Kill the Nightingale—and save her?_

Merard closed his eyes. For just long enough to drown out the last echoes of self-doubt and penitence

_Well, it's all in the past now._ All _of it._

And as he opened his eyes anew, the world was clear again. Simple.

_I am going to kill you._

Voiding his mind, then, Merard rode on.

After two or three hours of relentless voyaging, the world surrounding him was enfolded by darkness. A pair of guards eyed him with interest as he rode his exhausted steed by a farm just outside of Solitude. He paid no mind to them, stopped as they had a rock's throw away to study him.

As soon as he drew rein, the horse's hind legs gave out from underneath it, and once he'd dismounted, so did the front ones. The lathering beast then pitched onto its side.

_Someone else has to take care of you now._

Unmindful of the eyes at his back, Merard strode toward the harbor. People wisely stepped aside, out of his way, as he headed down to the docks. There, sitting at the end of a pier, a bearded bald man in a tan leather jerkin was dangling his feet beside a two-oared dinghy.

The ferryman turned jaundiced eyes on Merard, his mouth twisting slightly as though a customer was the last things he was hoping for.

"On your feet, rower," Merard rasped. Then, without waiting for invitations, he lowered himself into the boat and sat in the sternward thwart.

The ferryman, on his feet now, first regarded his uninvited charge with a mixture of distaste and apprehension; but then, after a small shrug of capitulation, got on board as well, settling onto the centermost thwart. "Where you headed then?"

Merard, after a pause, said, "To Castle Volkihar."

The ferryman's eyes widened slightly "Come again? What interest could you possibly have with Castle Volkihar? The place ain't nothing but a ruin."

"My business is my own. Now, let's go."

"Nuh-uh." The man shook his head. "I ain't going there. It's cursed; everybody knows that. Ain't no one gone there and come back. Not alive nor sane, anyhow." He shook his head again. "Find someone else!"

"Look, friend," Merard said quietly, leaning forward. "All I need is the boat."

For a moment, the ferryman stared at him with nervous hesitation in his eyes. Then the eyes hardened again. "Payment up front! It'll be five-hundred—" Something in Merard's regard stopped him. Brow breaking out in sweat despite the chill night wind, he licked his lips and continued, " _Fifty_ Septims."

Merard reached under his cloak and tossed out a heavy bag, which landed jangling onto the boat's bottom.

The ferryman glanced down at the coin purse, then studied Merard a short while longer. "Aye," he said with a minute nod. Collecting the oars, he glared at his customer once more, as though scraping together the last vestiges of his rancorous pride. "I ain't hanging round, you hear! Once there, I'm off and you on your own."

"That will do," Merard replied simply, his eye cast on the mouth of the bay and on the moderately mulling dark waters beyond.

There were no words spoken during the journey, lengthy in spite of the admirably swift pace the ferryman kept—his hard features betraying little in the way of exertion while the oars cleaved the sea in a steady and unrelenting rhythm. They skirted the continent's northernmost peninsula and continued westward. Cold northerly wind swept out from the icebound Sea of Ghosts, wailing in a manner befitting the name. Merard made no effort to shield his face against the frigid breeze, keeping his eye solidly fixed past the rowing geezer and toward their destination.

Finally, a looming dark mass started to take shape in the distance. A misshapen, hulking silhouette framed in the moonlight. And as it neared, the decrepit nature of what was left of Castle Volkihar became increasingly obvious. The keep part seemed relatively undamaged, but the rest was rapidly disintegrating. Entire sections had collapsed, battered walls standing as though out of sheer obstinacy, the dark shingled roof caved in at many places, and the entire structure claimed by moss and grasses. At parts, shrubs and small trees jutted out of the widened cracks between the swarthy stones. The whole affair was then coated by a dusty jacket of snow and frost.

Merard knew nothing of the place's history, but from the look of it, it had faced some manner of a beating.

As he sharpened his preternatural senses on the castle, he could, to his disquiet, catch nothing of the Nightingale's presence. In fact, there was very little of _anything_ about the place. As though the whole space surrounding the island was utterly devoid of anything that could be reasonably called life. It seemed almost to exist in an energetic vacuum of some sort. And although it would have been natural to parallel this with that unexplainable emptiness surrounding the Nightingale—just as, much to Merard's unease, it had surrounded the two seemingly unrelated young men—it just did not feel quite the same.

What did the superstitious ferryman say about a curse? Of course, a reasonable man such as Merard Motierre did not believe in such gobbledygook, but might it be that those spurious rumors yet hid something of the truth about this place? There were, after all, magics still in this word that defied commonplace comprehension—not to even speak of scholarly understanding.

In any case, he could not turn back. There was something going on here, he sensed, something of grave importance. It would simply be especially important for him to keep on guard.

The ferryman dropped Merard on the small pier on the island's western shore, and then promptly sallied out. Merard stared sourly after the distancing superstitious chump for a while, then turned to face the ruin. His eye slid up the hoary side of the dark watchtower brooding by the pier and to the dark dappled forms sailing the skies above. Birds, and in the middle of the night no less. Emitting no sound whatsoever. And despite them being undeniably animated, he could detect no sign of life.

Intent on disregarding the inconsequential, no matter how outlandish, he set out to cross the arch bridge leading to the keep's entrance. Still-intact gargoyles stood watch on both sides of the bridge at steady intervals, seeming to have frustrated time's disintegrating touch; not as much as a dab of moss or lichen on any of them. The same could not be said of the barbican, dappled with both and overgrown with vines, which grew so thick as to, in some places, bite into the very stonework. Merard had never seen anything like that before. The portcullis was hanging half off, with its wrought iron panels twisted and tarnished by rust.

He stepped past the gate, to find the double doors of the keep's entrance—the iron binds rusted, but otherwise in fairly good condition—slightly ajar. The hinges resisted some as Merard pulled on one of the doors. It opened with a groan, letting out a whiff of musty air. Smelling of wet stone and rotting timber and something which he was unable to name. It was almost sweet.

Curbing his apprehension, he then entered.

The vestibule was empty barring two more gargoyles sulking in shallow alcoves on both sides. A beam of turquoise moonlight slanted down from a window to the left, falling onto the long and narrow raggedy carpet buried under what looked like centuries' worth of dust. Up ahead, the hallway opened into a larger hall shrouded in gloom. With wary steps, Merard proceeded, eyeing with instinctive mistrust the ugly stone creations guarding his passage, and then coming to a narrow landing looking down into a large, high ceilinged ballroom, which, despite the moonlight filtered through stained glass windows, was largely obscured by darkness. He raised his left hand to generate an orb of magelight, then pushed it forward to hover above the chamber and so to afford him a better look at the surroundings.

He was looking at a dining hall—or at least something that had been one, from the look of things some century or so past. The shattered remains of long trestle tables and chairs could still be discerned underneath the rubble and grime that littered the cracked flagstones of the wide central floor. Rotted wood strewn all about, some parts like the tabletops or the backrests of chairs still identifiable, but a lot of it little more than sawdust. In the midst of the detritus, then, remains of dining implements: shards of glass and porcelain, the dull gleam of metal from candlesticks, cups, jugs, and cups. Masses of cobwebs draped the chandeliers hanging from the undulating vaulted ceiling of natural stone. Straight ahead and to the left, the balconies overlooking the hall had collapsed into it to add their wreckage to the disrepair. To the right, the stonework above two of the three vaulted doorways had come down, and various pieces of debris were piled in front of the third in the farthest corner.

As he regarded the view, Merard had to wonder if no one had truly been to this place since whenever it had been forsaken. The place would offer a perfect hideout for the braver—or perhaps simply more rational—type of bandit, as the puerile rumors surrounding the place would more or less guarantee no-one ever coming to call. Somehow, though, he strongly suspected it to be true. There was an undeniable eeriness, an almost physical sensation of _wrongness_ , about the place. One that would doubtless soon turn back anyone not equipped with his steely nerves. The nebulous notion of a deadly curse would certainly not help.

And indeed, realistically speaking, there was a good chance that the abode, in the not so atypical fashion of such abodes, hosted some manner of undead or otherwise otherworldly being, drawn as they tended to be to abandoned places. This might also explain at least partly the odd sensation that Merard was getting. Not that such beings could give him much trouble.

But that didn't seem quite right either. The feeling, a sort of growing pressure in his head, was nothing like he'd experienced before. It filled him with fascination—thought, undeniably, part of him wanted nothing more than to get away from this place as soon as possible.

_Afraid of ghosts, son?_

Merard set his jaw.

_You should be! If you're too weak to confront them, you'd better turn around while you still—_

Two sets of winding stairways led down to the dining hall, and he set out down the one on his left. With each step, the odd sensation grew stronger. At this point, he didn't even care about the fact that he could not sense anything of the Nightingale, or anything at all living. Sweat poured down his temples, and his stomach churned, his very soul seeming to quiver. Yet something had gotten ahold of him and kept drawing him forth. Something within this ruin, he now knew for certain, was specifically waiting for him. Something of significance was to be found here. A power, a presence. And it wanted Merard.

And, he realized, he wanted it too. Worse than he'd ever wanted anything in his entire life.

Including vengeance.

Reaching the ground floor, he beckoned and the magelight slowly floated down to hover beside him. His eye then caught something in the rubble, and he reached down to pick it up. A brass platter. It looked as good as new, as though it had not been lying here for years upon years. Only a small stain on it, one that looked less like verdigris and more like . . . blood?

He frowned at the object, feeling as though it didn't quite fit the picture. Just a platter. What was it about—

The magelight started to flicker abruptly, drawing his attention away from the dish. Merard scowled. He had never seen it do that before. Then the light winked out completely. Ill at ease on account of the unexpected occurrence, he was just about to produce another one when suddenly the pressure in his head increased exponentially. The platter went clanging onto the floor as he seized his agonized head with both hands. Squeezing his eyes shut, he dropped to a squat. A blaring buzz filling his ears accompanied the pain. He tried in vain to reach for his magica, but it felt as though an invisible and unsurmountable barrier now stood in the way. He could do nothing but brace himself against the onslaught. With the desperate hope that it would—

And then, as precipitously as it had started, the agony simply vanished. All of a sudden, everything around him felt different. He opened his eyes, the platter lying at his feet. The stain, it was still there, but changed. Merard frowned. It was indeed blood. But not stained. Fresh. And around him, light. He felt warmth in the air where there had been a dank chill just a heartbeat ago.

Looking up and around the hall, his jaw dropped in the most uncharacteristic manner. Everything around him had indeed been utterly transformed. In place of the wreckage, he was looking at a dining hall in perfect order. No trace of detritus on the floors, the balconies undamaged. The whole chamber awash with the warm light of candles burning all about. Two trestle tables, chairs on either side, pointed lengthwise towards the back wall, where a third one positioned on a low dais stood at right angles with them. The tables were laden with fine earthenware, candlesticks, and kegs of drink.

And, to shatter the otherwise ordinary view, naked corpses—three strewn head to toe in the middle of each lengthwise table. There were multiple wounds all over the bodies, yet no blood flowed out.

The chairs around the tables, then, were crowded with people. _People_ —if that truly was the word. Pallid, gaunt faces—some of them, though not all, unnaturally angular and bestial with blunt bat-like noses—eyes aglow with yellow and red fire, all turned towards him, studying him with rapt intent. Some wore smiles, but nothing of the affable sort. Men and women in equal measure, their bearings at once animate yet wholly at odds with anything truly alive. The energy that they emitted, unambiguously tainted.

A long and droning moan then alerted Merard to the fact that the naked bodies on the tables were not in fact dead at all. No, they were very much alive, and being put to good use no less. The wounds on them seemed to serve as taps, much like the spigots on those kegs. In numb horror, he gazed from one diner to the next. At the goblets they were passing to their lips. The hunks of rare flesh on their plates. The little red dapples all over the otherwise immaculate scene. At the outermost edge of the table to his right, a corpse-pale man in impeccable attire locked Merard with his lambent gaze, raising with perfect grace a silver cup brimming with thick crimson liquid, as if in toast. Then lifting it to his colorless lips. After a hearty mouthful, the man flashed him an elegant smile of blood-stained teeth.

"Welcome, sir, to the Castle Volkihar."

At the measured, musical male voice behind his back, he spun. A tall and lean Dunmer, with his long red hair tied into a ponytail at the top of his head and a short goatee of the same hue, regarded Merard some three paces away with hands tucked behind his back. "Mr. Merard Motierre, correct?" The Dunmer offered him slight smile "We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival."

"What is . . ." Merard's tongue suddenly felt thick inside his mouth. "There were . . . ruins."

"Indeed," the man said. "A most impressive glamour, yes? Though, just perhaps, a trifle exaggerated at places. In any case, one, I can assure you, requiring quite a bit of power to uphold. No matter." His lips spread into a ghastly smile, revealing fangs. "We are currently in no shortage."

"You," Merard managed, looking about. "You're . . . vampires."

The Dunmer inclined his head in acquiesce. "Perceptive, sir. I can already see the reason for the special interest that she has taken in you." His smile was an assessing one as his eyes swept Merard from head to toe. "Now, I regret that the lady of the house has yet to arrive. But I have been instructed to welcome you. I assure you that she is most eager to . . . _converse_ with you."

"Lady?" Merard frowned. Then, somewhat recovered from his initial daze, he said, "Ah, I'm looking for a man. The Nightingale?"

The vampire once again inclined his head, this time with something akin to regret. "I'm afraid that no such avian is present at this residence."

"He . . . was supposed to come here. I . . ." Merard's head was starting to feel odd again "I need to get to him."

"You've doubtless had a rough journey," the vampire said. "Now, if you'd only be so kind as to follow—"

"No!" Merard's hands once more went to his head. "I must . . ." He scanned the host of vampires staring at him. In passing, he noted a young-looking woman who had just a moment ago been leaning against the nearest vaulted doorway with her arms crossed in front of her, now walking away. Slowly shaking her head.

"You must come with me," the Dunmer vampire said resolutely. As Merard faced him anew, he was again smiling. A hard smile. "I must insist. I'm afraid this is not negotiable." He stepped closer. "You have been specifically requested. And he who has been demanded . . . shall be delivered."

Merard's legs felt week, and then his knees buckled, his head dizzy and his ears abuzz. Vision swimming. As the vampire regarded him with courteous satisfaction, he fell to his knees. The creature's lips were moving, but there was no sound beyond the blaring inside of his head. Darkness closed in.

 


	47. The Exodus

A little after passing Rorikstead, they had dared to slow their pace, as those without horses were forced to run and couldn't keep up any longer. Even now, walking down the road leading back to Lakeview Manor at a more or less unhurried pace, they kept taking backwards glances. They never saw anyone. And, according to Roggvar, no one would coming either, as the Imperial units were notoriously impotent in reacting to unexpected situations without clear separate orders. When Ariela had asked about it, he had disclosed that he had once served in the legion. "Though only for the pay, and only for a short while once I found more lucrative means," he had hastened to add.

Her lungs were still burning after the fervent hotfooting. She'd let Ania ride Lucky, as the woman had sprained her ankle running, and the horse seemed to have conceded to the wisdom of her judgement. She cursed her own lousy stamina. She'd have to work on that if she was going to get into more dangerous situations. Though it of course went without saying that she'd rather it didn't come to that. The research-chambers were sounding more and more like the place for her. Dry and boring as they might be, she now had conviction that she was not meant for a death at the point of a blade. A paper cut would never prove fatal.

Ariela yawned. It had been a long day, but it wasn't looking likely there'd be a night of restful sleep waiting for her. The images in her head would doubtless keep her awake, and even if she somehow managed to fall asleep, she'd just be facing them anew in her dreams. The latter thought was especially disconcerting, since her dreams had always held a particularly vivid quality.

The evening sky was clear save for a few bedraggled scraps of dark-and-gray clouds, like smudges of soot in the firmament. Stars were starting to shine through, the pinprick-like holes emitting the light of Aetherius into their world. Or so it was said. The moons shone translucently in the eastern sky, the setting sun bringing about a rosy glow in the horizon. It was all very beautiful. Yet, at the same time, the rugged, bare landscape and the cool heavens were utterly devoid of any comfort. Under this vast sky, they were on their own, and the nearing night would populate the land with predators, with tooth and claw. Weakness would not be indulged once the dark fell. Strength and cunning would be the only laws.

Sighing and pulling her shredded tunic tighter, Ariela scanned her companions. No one had been saying much, though given their nearly catastrophic expedition, they seemed to be in fairly good cheer. The blatant exception was provided by Ania, who wore a most miserable glower, hanging her head and staring at the mare's back. Roggvar walked beside the small woman, glaring up at her every now and then. His expression wasn't too exuberant either, and there was clearly something he was waiting to get off his chest.

Erik kept stealing glances at Ariela, and whenever she caught his eye, she smiled. He returned it each time, but then quickly looked away. She was damned if she could read the man, and it frustrated her to no end. Runa, on the other hand, didn't show any sign of discomposure. High up in Frost's saddle, she rode foremost of the convoy, her nose tilted lightly in the air, bringing to mind the alpha wolf at the head of its pack. Ariela wondered if the Nord was concealing something, or if such confidence simply came naturally to her. She hadn't been able to figure that out as of yet.

At the tail of the retinue, the remaining two warriors, whose names Ariela still did not know, were quietly exchanging words.

"Yeah," Roggvar finally growled, directing his words at the forlorn Ania. "You were right about Madanach; he wasn't too bad. No, not too bad at all. In fact, he was a regular charmer!" He barked a laugh more angry than amused.

Ania slowly shook her head without picking up her gaze. "He's changed," she uttered weakly.

Roggvar let out a laugh even less humorous than the last. "Oh, has he now?"

Ania lifted her chin and looked down at the big man. The volume and intensity of her voice rose a touch. "You don't understand. He didn't use to be like that. Like that . . . _monster_ we saw. Something has happened to him."

"Your natural tendencies often come out stronger with age," Ariela tried to pitch in. But even to her own ears, the offhand comment rung hollow.

"No," said Ania. "Something's wrong. Something's gotten ahold of him. Did you not see his eyes? He's gone mad."

Ariela had seen them, and could not argue with that.

Erik snorted. " _Gone_ ," he said. "I think that probably happened already when he decided it was a good idea to don deer hides and make his home in the nooks and crannies of the rockbound wilderness."

Ariela thought Erik's comment was a bit unfair. She herself might have loved to live in the wild, had she the necessary character and the required survival skills. And, just perhaps, an altogether different disposition to begin with.

Runa had gotten interested in the exchange, and fell back. " _Mad_ , you say?" Smirking. "Guess that's why he's named _Mad_ anach, huh?" No one showed particular amusement; barring the woman herself, of course. She waved. "Oh, come now! Cheer up, why don't you. We got out unscratched, did we not?"

No one made to comment on that.

Ariela tried again to make a contribution. "Perhaps Madanach's madness is at least partly to blame for the seeming stagnancy of the Forsworn. I mean, it seems to me they haven't exactly fought for their cause for some time."

"How unfortunate for the Reach!" said Runa.

Ania gave Ariela a sober look, ignoring Runa. "You may have something there. But clearly he's after _something_. I could still see that in him, that fevered determination. He has some plan, but it's apparently not to take Markarth anymore. At least not for the time being."

"What could it be, then?"

Ania shook her head. "I don't know," she said quietly. "And it frightens me. Madanach is nothing if not determined, and if he's after something sinister, it's likely he'll get it."

Runa snorted. "Oh, kind of like he got the Reach?"

Ania was not put down by Runa's rejoinder. She looked the younger woman steadily in the eye. "He _has_ the Reach," she said.

Runa made no comment, though she did seem to be weighing Ania's observation in her mind.

"Does what he's looking for, perhaps, have something to do with, well, _whatever_ it was he was trying to do to us?" asked Erik.

"Yeah, I'd like to know precisely what." Runa added. "Turn us into those eerie Briarhearts? Cause that's how it seemed to me."

"No," Ania said with a shake of her head. "Outsiders would never be permitted to be turned into Briarhearts. And never anyone unwilling."

"What _are_ the Briarhearts?" Erik asked.

"No one really knows," said Ania. "Even Madanach himself never really seemed to understand the forces he was meddling with; but that didn't stop him from trying to use them to his own advantage. With some success, of course."

"Some sort of old magic?" proposed Ariela.

Ania nodded. "Madanach and the Forsworn have ever sought to harvest the immense power embedded in the land itself. It's powerful, frighteningly so, and much, _much_ older than even the oldest generations of elven and men. The hagravens seem to derive their power from it, though even they can only use a small fraction. If somehow Madanach could tap into the source of that power—well, there would scarcely be anyone on Nirn able to stop him then.

A moment of silence passed, during which Ania's words were doubtless sinking into the minds of all who'd received them.

"Well, what about the kid, then?" Runa said finally. Ariela thought that the Nord showed exceptional interest in the boy. On the other hand, it couldn't be denied that there had been something awfully disconcerting about him—even disregarding the unstinting show of brutality he'd displayed.

"Something strange about him, for sure," intoned Roggvar, failing to add much of content to the matter.

Erik seemed not all too impressed. "Just a mage," he grunted. "They're an odd bunch."

"Never seen magic like his," Roggvar half muttered.

"You think it might be the... _land_ , you say?" Ariela asked Ania. "Had he access to it?"

The woman shook her head. "Impossible to say. Tell you the truth, I didn't much pay mind to the boy. Other things on my mind." She considered for a while. "All I can say is that it would be strange if someone besides the Forsworn laid claim to such powers. To my knowledge, theirs is unique among all the magics these days. And they're the only ones to have any relationship with the hagraven, who, again, to my limited knowledge, are the only ones to derive their powers straight from the ancient fathoms of the land."

The woman said nothing further, and rather seemed to lapse into her thoughts. Which, based on her frown and the tight-lipped set of her mouth, were not happy ones.

Runa had been listening closely to the older woman. And now, as the latter became more and more removed and distant in her manner, turned back to regard the road ahead. Still, Ariela sensed there was a change in her: a mildly vexed and tense quality to her posture, as if the gears in her head were nervously turning.

She softly shook her head. She was slipping into her old habit of picking up on other people's mental states, trying to analyze them to pieces. The quality that might yet make her an exceptional scholar, proved often burdensome in regard to personal relationships. So she relented.

Roggvar was on, then, changing the subject to one most likely closer to his own heart. "Well, what of this fordamned tome I nearly had myself flayed—or turned into a ghoul, or gobbled up, or who knows what—over?" he demanded. "Prove it to be the magni-fi-citious atlas of untold treasures of mind-boggling value like we were led to believe?" His speech and expression had an unmistakably skeptical tilt to them.

Ariela was actually taken aback when she noticed the bearded man's inquisitive eye trained straight at _her_. It felt a little unfair that _she_ should be the one to answer for the blatant lies that Runa had fed them. On the other hand, she was ready to admit that without the said lies, it would have been unlikely Ariela would now have the volume weighing down her knapsack.

"Well," she faltered. "It's, um, unclear as of yet, uh, as to the . . ." _What, what?!_ "I mean, I cannot read it. It obviously needs to be translated first." She felt the glow of triumph.

"Uh huh," grunted Roggvar. "Well does it have maps in it? Those don't need translation do they? If it's talking 'bout treasures, it ought to damn well to have maps, no?" His voice was raising, and Ariela felt cornered anew.

"Roggvar, Roggvar, Roggvar" Runa said. "Since when have you become a scholar of the cartographic arts? Ought I to commend you on behalf of your rapid rise in the world of academia?" She grinned at the now somewhat chastised-looking man. "Or might it be better if you kept your sizeable snout out of things not quite within the scope of your comprehension?"

"I've a right to know!" Roggvar burst out. And since it made him sound quite infantile, the reproaching clicking of Runa's tongue that followed, accompanied by the shaking of her head, seemed perfectly warranted.

"To be fair, it _was_ the incentive for this whole trip," Erik said in a level voice, but directing his eyes at Runa rather than the mostly-innocent scholar.

"Nearly got us killed!" Roggvar reminded, quite redundantly.

"Yes, yes," Runa said. "I hear you. Loud and clear. But the fact of the matter is, we don't know what the book even says, so we have to wait for the translation." Regarding the displeased countenance of Roggvar, she continued. "But let's face it: it could have been much worse. At least we avoided any further conflagration with the imperials."

Roggvar frowned. "Conflagwhat, now?"

"A conflag . . . an alterca . . . I mean, uh, a squabble. A squabble, Roggvar."

The man's expression smoothened, and he nodded. "Ah, yes. We did, at that." Then, remembering the original grievance, he reassumed his peeved frown.

"Things'll work out, trust me," said Runa. Once more, she did sound sincere.

"Humph. Well, we'll see about that," Roggvar said, finally seeming to let up.

Just then, a realization come upon Ariela; something that had from the start struck her as out of place about Runa. The way the woman spoke, she oftentimes did not sound like an uneducated killer. That, of course, was because she wasn't one. A killer, sure, but her affluent mother had no doubt done her best to give her adopted daughter a good education, and afforded her good tutors. She thought about what Maren had said about Runa loitering about the Bard's College in Solitude. No doubt the woman, as the Thane, had connections with the educators there, the city being the province's cultural capital.

And yet, despite the chances doubtlessly open for her and her evidently quick wits, Runa had instead been drawn into the world of violence. Why?

"Still, it would be nice to make some real money for once," muttered Roggvar, disrupting Ariela's musings. "Live large, like. You know?"

Runa assumed a sarcastic expression. "Yeah? I bet you'd just wind up in your grave more the faster."

"Ha! Where's _this_ wind blowing from, now?"

Runa shrugged. "Well, the way I see it, you hunt for something all your life, got some goal that basically motivates most of your actions. Like striking gold, for example. Or, in your case, endless services of whores."

"Make it both!" Roggvar laughed.

"Yes, well, anyway. Ultimately, if you end up getting what you wished for, if you finally luck out enough to make it . . . Well, the way I see it, it'll most likely turn out claiming your life sooner than you can really start to enjoy it."

Erik snorted. "Well, Runa. Let no one ever say you've not the knack for positive thinking!"

"Well, you know me, old friend" said the smirking Runa. "I'm a hopeless cynic."

Ariela regarded the mopey Roggvar, and felt a pang of empathy. It was true that he, same as everyone else in their retinue, had put his life on the line on their expedition, which had been all for her benefit in the end. And, as it was seeming, there wouldn't even be anything in the way of recompense. Ariela still had the meager amount of gold allocated for her to pay for the service of mercenaries, but it would hardly be enough, she'd come to realize, to provide _one_ of them a sufficient reward, let alone the whole group. And, to be sure, compared with Runa's grandiose and completely baseless promises, offering such pitiful pay would barely pass for a proper insult.

"Roggvar," she said softly. "I think we all appreciate your efforts today. I mean, the way you put yourself on the line in order to deal with those soldiers. Without you, we might all be detained right now, on our way to Markarth for questioning and who knows what."

"Well," Roggvar mumbled, visibly uncomfortable being addressed this way, likely not a common occurrence, "I don't know . . ."

"No, Roggvar. You were great. Thank you!" She gave him a smile as amiable as she could muster. Judging by the pleased, yet a bit blushed, expression on the big man's bearded countenance, she got it right. "And, um, I'm sorry about . . . you know." She motioned with her eyes in the direction of Runa.

"Ah," he said with a laugh. "That's alright, lass. We're all used to her antics. Tell you the truth, I never thought much of her blustering big talk about the gold. I mean, what are the odds, right!"

"Oh? But . . ." Ariela was nonplussed. "You went along with it. Surely you thought . . ."

Roggvar laughed again. "Yeah, well. I did go along, that much is true. But it wasn't for just gold." He grinned at the scholar, who was growing more baffled by the second. "Adventure—it's in my blood. Face a small army of Forsworn disadvantaged—a nearly certain death—and all for a very dubious promise of ancient treasures? Could hardly resist such a harebrained plot, now could I!"

Ariela stared at the suddenly revivified man, her wits running completely on empty. Roggvar caught the obvious confusion of her aspect. "That's how we all are," he explained, gesturing at the people around. "It's what we live for, right or wrong. Can't picture a more honorable way of dying than by an entirely unfamiliar sword, over a prize you can hardly even remember what it was!"

"What about the whole fuss you just made, then?"

Roggvar waved his hand. "Ah, that. It's part of the show. It's the job of the underling to always bitch and moan about how those calling the shots give 'em rotten deals, cause them unnecessary grief, get them killed over nothing; all that. That's just how we do things—wouldn't think too much of it."

"So you don't actually expect any reward for your troubles?" Ariela feared she was starting to sound both repetitive _and_ dense.

"Now, I didn't say that, exactly," Roggvar said. He tipped his helmet to scratch his bristly head. "It's complicated; hard to explain to somebody not familiar with our ways." He took on a somewhat soberer look. "But I _will_ be hassling Runa about this still, don't you worry. They say one has to always live up to their word—even when it turns out to be naught but a damn lie."

Ariela frowned. "I can't say I can even begin to understand that."

"Aye," Roggvar said, nodding.

When the man made no further comment, Ariela though to let the issue die out. Still, their conversation made her contemplative. How much there was yet in the world she did not understand; so many ways of looking at things completely alien to her way of thinking. It perplexed her, but simultaneously filled her with a sentiment approaching exhilaration. There was so much for her still to do, so much to learn. And she would, too, provided she didn't make a habit of acquiring knowledge by throwing herself at the most heinous of dangers the way she had today—successful though it may have turned out. Surely there were ways to forward your learning about life other than nearly dying . . .

However, a little pang of disillusionment flared within her as she remembered the reality of the limitations in academic pursuits. There were potentially limitless angles from which to approach the issue of reality; the hundreds of facets of it that all beckoned her in their own way. And yet, as soon as right after the third year of her studies, she'd been forced to choose, to pick a particular field of study to focus on. There was never a shortage of reminders on the importance of narrowing one's scope of inquiry. And she had to admit that it was true: you could scarcely arrive at a coherent picture of anything if you lacked focus, did not specialize. But how could she have been expected to choose?

In the end, after a considerate amount of hemming and hawing, she ended up picking Daedric studies. This was partly because it was, surprisingly, among the least popular of fields, and she never felt right following the herd. Another major reason for her choice was Herennius' recommendation; it was the subject matter closest to his heart, and this way Ariela could ensure her proximity with the scholar she so admired. And, as she'd told Runa earlier, it _was_ an important question. She was still convinced of that. It was just . . . well, it seemed so removed from the rest of the world. A subject of purely theoretical approach, keeping one from observing the actual world, and the people in it. That was, if one did not want to risk their lives meddling with the actual creatures.

On the other hand, she thought while feeling though the fabric for the book in her bag, if she had to acquire all her material the way she had this one, she'd get a way closer look at the world with its many peculiarities than she cared for. She let out a long sigh. Was there no middle ground?

She rubbed at her face. She was too tired, and her thoughts were starting to run aground.

Just a couple minutes later, they turned off the road, and were once again arriving back at the Manor. Ariela for one welcomed the sight, like she might have an old friend. At least for one night she could once more forget all about it. She'd have a nice big meal, maybe even drink some mead, and perhaps even inquire if Maren wouldn't mind letting her have another bath.

On second though, she might be too tired for a bath, and instead prefer to crash into bed right after eating. Never mind what ghastly nightmares awaited her in the night. She was too exhausted to care, and that in its way gladdened her. She smiled at the sight of smoke slowly twisting out of the chimney. The dark had fallen, and the smell of smoke paired with the crisp air of autumn night and the thought of the warm fire in the hearth—and of warm food—was enough to bring about a fluttering flame inside her. Tonight, she would just—

"What in the name of . . ." said Runa, and Ariela's happy thoughts were squelched into the mud. The sense of dread rose anew.

"What?" Erik said.

"Look over there," replied Runa, pointing in the direction of the side of the Manor. By the corral, there was a pile of something that in the dark looked like a collection of rags. The pale light of the moons reflected from the pieces of metal piled atop the cloth.

Upon approach, it soon became evident that the pile consisted of people. There were three of them, one woman and two men. Dressed in dirty, torn clothes, on top of which they wore pieces of old, tarnished iron armor. The eyes of the man lying on his back at the top were open, staring sightlessly at the night sky. The caked splash of blood on his chest plate owed its origin to the wide gash about his neckline.

Bandits, and all quite dead.

"Well," said Roggvar, as they stood around the morbid formation.

"Yup," said Runa.

"Bandits," said Erik.

Runa looked up. "The ones you were after?"

Erik shrugged. "Don't know. Possibly."

"Best we go inside now. Get some explanation, maybe."

"Shouldn't we, you know, _do_ something?" Ariela asked, gesturing at the bodies. If it was horror she was feeling, it was the numbest kind she'd ever had.

"Like what?" Runa asked. "I'm rather sure there's nothing we can do for them now. As I see it, they seem perfectly content the way they are. Don't you think?"

Ariela kept silent.

Inside the manor, Maren was sitting at the table in the main hall, a goblet filled to the brim and a half-gone bottle of spiced wine in front of her. Another bottle, empty, stood alongside it. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the bard was plucking at his flute, casually playing a simple melancholy tune.

Maren looked up as they entered. She smiled her calm, friendly smile, but didn't rise. "You're back. I take it that it was a success, then?" She scanned the bedraggled crowd, her expression unchanging, though doubtless she could read the message on the faces of the arrivals.

"Well," Runa said. "Define successful." She gestured at Ariela. "She found her book."

Maren looked at Ariela, and nodded. "Very good."

Ariela picked up a strand of sadness in the woman, though it was very subtle underneath the poised, calmly smiling composure. There was a faint red scrape a couple inches long on her left cheek.

"The Forsworn were a little less than helpful, though," Roggvar said.

"Oh?" Maren arched a brow. "Ania's persuasions didn't work, then?"

"I though they did at first," Ania replied quietly. "But then . . ." She trailed off.

"We lost Olav," Erik said.

Maren gave a solemn nod. "He was a good man. I think." She took a drink. "What happened?"

"I'll tell you all about it over some ale, ma'," Runa said. "Looks like you had some visitors while we were gone." She jerked back her thumb towards the door.

"Yes," Maren said. "Seems as if they were lost."

Runa snorted. "Well, I can see you set them right on the correct path!" She laughed. "Guess the old cat still has claws, huh?"

Ariela eyed the sneering woman with growing distaste. Did she always have to do that? Bandits as these might have been, they'd still been people as well. They had all been someone's children once—innocent little squirts with mamas and papas, just the same as everyone else. They weren't _born_ bandits. Horrible things must have happened to them, to drive them to take such a miserable road. Surely they were desperate, poor, and by and large unloved. To kill them for self-defense, or even for bounty, was one thing; but to treat the taking of their lives with such garrulous mirth as Runa did . . . well, it made it somewhat difficult for Ariela to wholly like her at moments.

"I'm still perfectly capable of defending myself and my property, if need be. If that's what you're wondering," Maren was calm as ever, but the edge in her voice betrayed that she was not in a mood for jesting, either.

Runa, oblivious to this, went on. "Oh, that's all very good and proper," she sneered. " _Defend myself and my property,_ " she said in exaggerated mimicry of her mother's dignified mode of speech. "Don't tell me it doesn't feel at least a little bit good letting out the old Chopper." She pointed at the two-hand sword Ariela had been examining last night. It leaned against a barrel at the side of the room, its blade stained crimson. To Ariela's eye, it was almost as if the weapon glowed, having been able to live true to its purpose once more— perhaps even drink the life force of those whom it'd quelled.

Maren did not make to answer. She simply regarded Runa as though waiting for her to run out of wind.

That didn't appear to be happening. "Maren Bandit-bane," Runa said with a smirk. Then she grew even more animated. "Oh! And you'll _never_ guess. Even the little scholar had her first kill today!"

To Ariela's horror, Runa pointed at her, with everyone turning to look. Including the bard, who now stared mouth narrowly agape, abandoning his mellow little ditty.

She hadn't needed to be reminded of what happened; and she most certainly did not need to become the subject of everyone's scrutiny. And—curse her!—why did Runa choose to keep calling it her "first" kill!

Maren's expression was at once shocked and empathetic. Ariela met her deep gaze and saw understanding there. Doubtless the older woman could read her as well, for she said nothing, and simply gave a slight nod. I may just as well have been one of acknowledgement as of condolence. Could have been both.

Ariela shot Runa a glare, which she meant as an unambiguous warning. It went utterly disregarded.

"Yeah," the grinning Nord said. "Bashed a Forsworn's head in, she did! Never thought to see that."

"Runa," said Maren quietly.

"Saw the whole thing too," Runa went on, unheeded. Ariela didn't know if the woman had made that part up. "The damn rock was almost as big as her; I'll never know how she even managed to pick it up!"

"Runa," Maren repeated a touch or two louder, and more sternly. A cold, numb horror wallowed within Ariela.

Then anger.

"Should have seen her afterwards too," Runa said, laughing. "She just sat on the ground; on her face the most—"

"ENOUGH!" Ariela screamed, throwing her hands over her temples. Her head suddenly felt as though about to burst with fury. "Don't you get it? No one wants to . . ." Her heart beat like crazy, and the shouting had hurt her throat. She fired another furious glare at the undeniably flabbergasted Nord. "What's wrong with you? Why can't you ever be quiet? Can you just shut your big, stupid mouth for _ONCE_?!"

An utter and complete silence followed. Everyone was staring at Ariela. Runa's mouth hung open; she clearly had not anticipated this. But then neither had Ariela. She suddenly felt completely voided of all of her rage, feeling in its stead all cold and lost.

And alone.

"I'm . . . sorry," she muttered, to no one in particular. Then she spun round and ran upstairs.

In the guestroom, she closed the door and laid down without changing her clothes. She slumped onto the bed, pressed her face into the pillow, and cried. She cried and cried, until she was completely dry and empty, and then slipped into restless, dreamless sleep.


	48. The Guest of Honor

"I don't understand," said the High Queen, frowning down at the messenger. "Whoever told you to go and assault a Foresworn camp?"

The messenger blinked. "Er, Your Grace . . . I, ah, recon that's the reason we was sent over there in the first place."

"Yes," Elisif snapped, "to report to Jarl Faleen and _then_ aid them with the Forsworn problem! I suppose that I should've drawn you a picture? By Talos, next time Captain Plebo dares set foot in front of me, I'll make sure to bust his—" She momentarily reposed her forehead on the tips of her fingers, airing a deep exhale. "Well, never mind I suppose. The main thing is that the detachment ultimately ends up in Markarth. I swear, if I hear as much as a peep from those families again, I'm going to make good on my threat."

The baby-faced messenger glanced at Sybille standing at her usual place. The woman, true to her manner, was eying the young man like a side of pork. "Er . . . Yes, Your Grace."

Elisif studied him a while longer, an annoyed look in her blue eyes. Then she gusted another sigh and slumped back. Looking away, she flicked a weary hand. "Shoo."

The messenger's heels clicked together. "Yes, Your Grace" He spun, and then, visibly relieved, hastily skittled down the stairs and out of harm's way.

Quintus glanced at the High Queen's housecarl standing next to him. The colossal man was encased within a full set of steel plate armor, the solid face guard of his helm hiding his features. Standing perfectly motionless, in that regard closely reminiscent of the Court Wizard on the opposite side of the room. He wondered where the man had been during his previous times in front of this throne. Sleeping, perhaps? Honestly, the court housecarl taking his beauty sleep in the middle of the day would in many ways have perfectly fit the picture that the Chief Inspector had seen here so far.

The bemused Elisif, leaning one cheek onto the fist of a propped arm, directed her attention to him. "And so, Chief Inspector. I apologize for the disruption. You were about to explain to me what happened?"

Quintus cleared his throat, stepped forth. "I wouldn't necessarily say _explain_ , Elisif."

She raised a brow, though whether this was due to his words or his informal address, Quintus did not care to ponder. "Going to elaborate?" she asked.

"There were . . . complications."

"I'll say. And what manner of . . . _complications_ ," she stretched out the word, "would those have been? If I may be so intrusive?"

He considered. "What you need to know is that there were complications. It is as simple as that."

"I offer," said the High Queen impatiently, "a host of my own soldiers to accompany you, along with good warhorses and an Imperial issue carriage. And you return, alone, in a cart of cabbages driven by a toothless peasant, stained in blood purportedly not your own—and I'm told to simply content myself with this level of detail?"

"The peasant in question was not toothless," Quintus pointed out.

The look that she gave him was so dumbfounded that he had to fight hard against a grin.

"But I do understand your consternation. Alas," he said gravely, "one of my own men—perhaps indeed the best, most loyal one I've ever had the privilege of employing—was also . . . _lost_ during this, um, most bewildering expedition. So you are by no means alone in your grief!" Before Elisif had a chance to say anything, he added, "But woe betide me should I speak more of it! If you want answers, then I suggest that you consult Cristus Farseer of the Vigilants of Stendarr." _Good luck with that!_ "But at this point I can divulge no more precise an account."

Elisif sighed again, shook her head quietly. "I see."

Quintus smiled. "I am glad. It pleases me to know that the notion of discretion is not an altogether alien one to a woman in your position." He inclined his head, adding, "Your Grace."

Elisif eyed him for a piqued moment longer, then snorted sourly. "So, I suppose you shall be hanging around a while longer then?"

"Not at all. In fact, I have already arranged it so that my ship leaves early in the morn."

This time it was definitely surprise which arched her eyebrow. "Indeed? I must confess this is most unexpected. What of the very pressing issue of the yet unsolved murder?"

Quintus offered the woman an altogether untroubled smile. "I am satisfied."

She blinked. "That's it? Satisfied? That does nothing to explain—"

"All you need know," Quintus cut in, "is that—"

"That you're satisfied. Yeah, I get it." Elisif gave a most frustrated sigh, slumping back once more.

Quintus could barely conceal his gratification at her reaction. And why should he? "Indeed," he said sunnily, "I shall spare no extolling words when depicting your most prodigious brainpower to the Emperor!"

Barely restrained murder shone in the High Queen's eyes when she said, "And I take it we will not hear of this issue again?" The tint of her voice was skeptical to say the least.

"The Empire's days of pestering you about the murder of Titus Mede II are behind us. I can assure you of that."

Elisif eyed him for a moment longer in silence, the apprehensive expression on her immaculate countenance speaking volumes of how far she trusted his words. But Quintus had truly meant them. If the bitch could not understand this, well, all the better. Serve her right to suffer dubiety for a while longer. In fact, if she spent the rest of her life anxiously waiting for the axe the drop, to Quintus' satisfaction, that would have scarcely been long enough. But he was realistic enough to know the extent of his fortune.

It was just as well.

Another thing popped to his mind, then, the voicing of which could only add to Elisif's discomposure. He couldn't suppress a smug smile, even as he began to utter the words. "Furthermore, I shall make sure that—"

"Jagar!"

The woman's sudden exclamation, together with the very genuine spark of curiosity which immediately followed the initial sense of confusion within Quintus, was enough to completely wipe out the conniving words from his mind. He spun in the direction of the stairs, where Elisif's attentive gaze was now fixed.

The tall and thin, dark-haired and blue-eyed youth casually walking up the final steps of the stairway was on some level the spitting image of the woman sitting on the throne. And at the same time, Quintus marked well, that distinctly high forehead and that sharp nose sitting on those narrow features left little work for the imagination to complete the picture. This face he knew—and it was hard work suppressing the scowl of bitterness upon witnessing it.

Soon, however, such petty emotions gave way to pure intrigue.

The boy paid the Chief Inspector no mind, smiling insouciantly at the woman that birthed him. "Hello, mother dearest. Keeping busy as always, I see."

"Where have you been?" Elisif asked sharply.

The woman's attitude seemed only to amuse him further. "Why, traveling, mother. Getting better acquainted with our beautiful province and its people. Would you expect any less of me?"

"You haven't been seen in two days!"

Jagar considered. "Worried for me?"

Elisif shifted on her throne. "I _always_ worry. Don't you understand that?"

This whole time she had not as much as shed a glance Quintus' way. Apparently showing no qualms about directly addressing her son, and thus in truth confirming what rumors could only conjecture. Not acting in the least as though a court secret was being spilled all over the polished marble floor, right in front of perhaps the wrongest pair of eyes conceivable.

Quintus was fascinated, to say the least of it.

But, it then occurred to him, was there additional meaning to be read into the High Queen's words about worrying, other than simply the quite universal sentiment of mothers the world over?

"Oh, by the way," Elisif said, as though only now again remembering his guest. "This," —she gestured— "is Quintus Lex, the Chief Inspector of Penitus Oculatus." It seemed as though she briefly considered explicating his purpose of being there as well, but left it at that.

"Aha," replied Jagar. He regarded Quintus as if only now noticing him there, offering a small, cordial, if utterly indifferent smile. He inclined his head slightly, and said, "Splendid. Always good to have a bit of a looking over, eh?" After these halfhearted words, he refocused on the High Queen. "Anyway, you needn't concern yourself on my account. I've learned to look after my own by now. You should know that."

Elisif regarded him through slightly narrowed eyes for a few moments, then gave a small sigh, leaning back. "So," she said, obviously trying to sound casual, "meet some girl, by any chance?"

Jagar wore a slanted, private smile. "As a matter of fact, I just may have met one . . . or two." Taking no note of his mother's rolling eyes, he continued more animatedly, "Oh! And I did meet a very interesting fellow as well. A Breton of most assiduous disposition. After the very lifeblood of the Nightingale himself he was!" He shook his head. "And so blinded by his vengefulness that even when fed an obvious lie—about the Nightingale hiding in the ruins of Castle Volkihar—well, he done swallowed it with the hook, line, and sinker. No matter that I tried telling him that the place is naught but an abandoned pile o' rubble. Cursed, the place, don't they say?"

Even as Elisif was frowning at this sudden burst of outlandish narrative, the usually immobile Sybille Stentor suddenly stirred. "Well, Highness," she said, and that unemotional serpentine voice sent little icicles dancing down Quintus' spine, "This has all been very exciting, but I believe that my presence is no longer needed here. May I? I have some . . . affairs to attend to."

Abstracted, Elisif just waved a hand at her Court Wizard, muttering erratic words of dismissal.

The eerie witch glided noiselessly across the floor to stop in front of Quintus, who instinctively held his breath. "Well then, Quin—" Her purportedly playful smile was a crevasse in a sheet of ice. " _Chief Inspector_. I truly hope that you have indeed found everything to your satisfaction. The prospect, I confess, much pleases me. It was a real pleasure to have you with us here, as our most esteemed guest of honor; and we will, of course, welcome you back at any time, should the need for such a visitation again arise. Yet I hope that what you have discovered is exactly what you were looking for, and that whatever you may take home with you shall prove to be of utmost benefit to you . . . and to his Imperial Grace, of course. Now, whether or not we meet again, I bid you safe journey—and may the blessings of the powers that be guide your way in whatever circumstances befall you. Farewell."

Before the dumbfounded Chief Inspector had a chance to think of anything to say, she was gone.

Jagar stretched ostentatiously. "Well," he said through his yawn, "I for one have had an eventful day. By now I'm ready for a good night's sleep. Goodnight, fair Mother."

Elisif, rolling her eyes, said, "Sleep well, son."

As the young man sailed past Quintus, he gave a desultory nod. " _Inspector_ , was it?"

Elisif stared after her son for a moment, an inscrutable expression on her smooth features. She then slanted Quintus a wry look. "Young men, eh? They're a handful."

Quintus blinked. "Yes," he managed. "I imagine that they are."

He was suddenly overcome by perplexity. Should he perhaps say something? Take the opportunity to use the unexpected scene he had just witnessed as further leverage against the woman? The sudden appearance of the son that she had seemed to try keep secret.

And on the other hand, was that perchance precisely what she wanted? The bitch may well have been counting on him to say something . . . And if so, then in that case he should definitely keep silent. Act as though nothing at all untoward had taken place.

Whatever the case, he entertained no doubts about the significance of this. He'd have to give the matter some serious thought once back at the Imperial City.

"My apologies about the constant interruptions, Chief Inspector. You were saying?"

_Bugger if I know!_ "Well, Your Grace," Quintus said courteously, "it is not really all that important in the end. Bottom line here is, you have met your responsibilities with characteristic diligence, and I have no more requirement of you. Furthermore, I've no doubt that the Emperor will send a suitable token of his appreciation your way, as soon as he gets my report on the most gracious treatment and assistance that I received as your guest." He completed his sugarcoated waffle with a small bow, acknowledging that the barb that he'd sought to plant within his message had turned out somewhat blunt.

Elisif's eyes narrowed for a second as she considered his words, and Quintus smiled.

Hands behind his back, he traipsed onto the long red carpet directly in front of the throne. He spread out the hands, then let them drop to his sides. "That being said, as there is nothing more we can provide each other, and seeing that it is drawing rather late, I will now beg your leave and retire for the night. And I'm afraid that as there will be scarce time in the morning, this here now," he plastered on a melancholy smile, "is farewell."

"Indeed, on all accounts a somber occasion," replied Elisif.

"That it is," Quintus said, "that it is. And yet, we may rejoice that the Empire has gained yet another victory, which shall only strengthen its resolve to stand against its enemies."

Elisif wore an ironic expression. "As you say."

"And so," Quintus breathed, "I bid you good night." He grinned, adding, "And good luck."

Only the minutest of flashes in the High Queen's coldly smiling eyes betrayed her having heard anything untoward underlying the Chief Inspector's latter words. They were, in fact, a challenge. Although it would be some time still before this would become fully apparent.

"You too," Elisif replied, after a pause.

Challenge accepted.

Quintus bowed one last time, giving the High Queen a look, one confirming that he had well understood the significance of their last wordless exchange, and could in turn see in her answering gaze that she was indeed on the same page. Then he spun around and headed toward the stairs.

Before he set a foot on the first step, however, something, perhaps simply the force of habit, made him look back one more time. The High Queen Elisif the Fair, as exquisite as ever, sat imperiously on her ostentatious throne, her voluminous golden hair ablaze in the torchlight, smiling the knowing smile of a woman at the top of her game. More or less aware of what the future held, and completely unafraid. She waggled her slender, bejeweled fingers in farewell.

With a small, voiceless grunt, Quintus set out down the stairs, his footfalls on the marble echoing in the high-ceilinged hall.

Swearing a solemn oath never again to return to this place.

* * *

There was no way for Merard to tell how long he had been there. But it had been only a few moments that he'd spent conscious. _Where_ was another matter altogether. He saw no reason to think, however, that he'd been taken anywhere from Castle Volkihar.

He opened his eyes to the gloom. There was scant light in the hall, but he could tell that it was a spacious one. Enough light so that he could see clearly his hands, which were manacled on either side of his head. Enough to discern the shadowed shapes of fetters lining the wall in each direction. Just barely so that he could see the wall on the opposite side similarly decorated. There were large shapes about the room. Tables, contrivances. He could well guess their nature. There were no windows that he could see.

He closed his eyes again.

Fooled, once more. The boy, in his way, had been right. There was nothing for him to find here but ruin. Certainly no Nightingale. No absolution. No sweet revenge. This was nothing but a dead end. As it would seem, quite literally. Was this then to be the end of the great and formidable mage Merard Motierre? A plaything for the undead, little more than a skin of blood to be sucked dry. If so, in its way it seemed fitting enough. For all his arrogance, his baseless self-confidence and conceited faith in his own unerringness, this was a suitable punishment.

Merard's mind raced. He'd been set up somehow, lured into a trap. And he had taken the bait. But who was behind it? What would the Nightingale's bunch gain by getting him to come to this place? Had they known somehow that the boy would be coming to set him free? Had they planned the whole thing? No, that didn't add up, made no sense. If they simply wanted him dead they'd have had no difficulty taking care of it right there and then, no use for elaborate schemes. If indeed there was some deception behind it all, somehow they'd needed him right here. But _why_? And had the kid been in some way involved?

Frustrated by the wealth of unanswerable questions, he slumped against his binds. Let the cold metal bite into the skin and bone in his wrists. Cherished the pain. In all its simplicity, it was as an old friend. Familiar, trustworthy. Manageable.

And yet, the consternation of his mind could not be subdued by means of simple physical distraction. An entire life, proven meaningless. One big dead end.

He was, in the end, a fool.

But if a puppet he had been, then whose hands might it have been holding the strings?

Just another question beggaring a satisfactory answer.

He let thought fall away, focused on the breath going in and out through his nostrils. Becoming empty. Reaching out towards the light, the one thing he had left. The one thing no one could ever take away from him. Perhaps this time, he would not re-emerge. Would become as nothing. Slip into the Infinite.

Concentrating his Will, the core of his being, he reached out. Reached out, and . . .

Nothing.

No, not nothing. Not the good kind, in any case. He could feel himself frown, where normally by this point he'd have cut all ties to physicality. There was no light. Only darkness. And not simply the kind of darkness resulting of lack of light, either, but rather representing its total opposite. It felt alive, in spite of lacking any features that he recognized. In its lack of features, then, it was Absence itself.

Yes, it was alive. And mocking him.

Was this what it had always been—not light, only darkness masquerading as such?

_Since the beginning, son, you were ever but a fool!_

He'd no choice but to acknowledge the truth when it was so obviously presented to him. All along, he'd thought that he knew what he was doing. That he had a plan. A purpose. That he was the sovereign of his own life. Each such thought was now once and for all shown to be what it was, as nothing but lies. He had never been in charge of anything. Just the opposite. In the yoke of outside forces. A pawn. This, now, was the decisive moment when he could deny it no longer.

Point of no return.

He felt a tidal wave of emotion building deep within him. Its suppressed power, he knew, so vast that he would not be able to endure it. Once it broke out, the man he had been, or had imagined himself being, would be no more.

_It's just as well—_

No! Merard steeled himself for one more act of defiance against whichever fates had set themselves against him. He would not let it happen! He would not let them get to him. He refused to be broken. They could _not_ win! He would not succumb to the level of a . . . of a—

"Of what—a _human?_ "

He almost responded to the voice in the manner he'd grown accustomed to as of late, feebly telling it to leave him be. But then he realized that although much in the intention and tone and the overall feeling of it was exactly the same, the voice itself was not. This was a female one.

And, most importantly, _outside_ of his head.

He opened his eyes. A figure, its dark aspect blending into the surrounding murk at first sight stood some five paces away. In the midst of the darkness, lambent eyes stared out from underneath a cowl, fixed on him. The woman's—for a woman this undeniably was—presence filled him with an odd wealth of sensation. The feeling was in some way comparable with what the Nightingale had given him, only much stronger. The same emptiness that had characterized the man, as it had the two young ones as well, surrounded her like a great vacuous force field. By now, it felt almost familiar, as if he could really see it for the first time. As though a part of him was returning home.

"I've been . . . watching you." The voice that came out of the woman was a sibilant hiss. It almost seemed to carry its own echo. "I virtually never come here in person anymore, as there is little need. However, you have caught my . . . attention. There is indeed very little worthwhile in being human. Man," the woman pronounced, "a frail thing, really. One to be . . . _overcome_."

Although her voice was cold and lacking in any emotion recognizable as passion, Merard felt the echo of each word as a tingle coursing up and down his spine. His entire body, he realized, was rapidly coming alive. A dark flame churning in his chest, in his stomach, about his loins.

"Now," the apparition said, and Merard could feel her burning gaze bore straight into his soul. "Tell me . . . what do you want?

He was almost amused by this unexpected question. He could not think of anyone ever asking him that before.

"Do you want . . . power?"

Closing his eyes, Merard gritted his teeth. The image of Alabistair Adrognese inadvertently rose to his mind. For all the man's cautionary adages of the detriments of power, he had been a hypocrite in the end. After all, what had his quest for becoming the mightiest mage in mortal history been about other than power? He had purportedly sought only to free himself from the confines of mortality, to search for freedom rather than influence or control. But seeking the Absolute was all about the desire for ultimate power. To this fact, he had been blind. And it was at least partly precisely this blindness that had killed him.

But none of that mattered anymore. The past was good and buried. And soon the future might be as well.

Upon opening his eyes, Merard started. He'd not closed his eyes for more than a couple heartbeats, but in this time the woman had crossed the distance between them, and now stood less than a couple paces from him. He hadn't heard a sound; nor did she seem as though she had moved.

"Do you want . . . _absolute_ power?" the woman said. She then cocked her head, and Merard saw a smile form on her bloodless lips. "No, you needn't answer me that"

"Who are you?"

The shadowed female, ignoring this question, soundlessly crossed the rest of the distance between them. "Do you know what such power entails?" she asked. "I can tell you. It entails immeasurable corruption. Untold . . . _suffering_!" The last hissed word seemed to reverberate within Merard's skull. "It means domination, complete subjugation of those weaker than you; of those standing in your way . . . and even those who do not. Murder. Torture. Tyranny. And not simply for their necessity, but _for the sheer pleasure of them_! This is the truth as seen by all those who've looked deep inside the desire for such power. To most men, it would be nothing short of madness. Yet, to those who gaze unflinchingly at such a truth . . . _it is the only way imaginable_! Now . . ." The woman's hand shot out, cold fingers trapping Merard's jaw in an iron grip. She stuck her face right close to his, and in his eyes it was as terrible as it was beautiful. Her breath held no odor. "How does that make you feel?" she whispered. "Does it terrify you . . . or _does it excite you_?"

Her depthless flaming pits of eyes seemed to pour into Merard's soul. He couldn't have possibly looked away, even if he wanted to. The stare felt as if it scoured the depths of his being. Reached into it as though it was hers already, knew it better than he ever had. And when she spoke, it was as though her voice was inside his head; and more his—more _him_ —than his own voice could ever be. It plucked at the threads of his soul, spoke his own mind to him with a clarity that he'd never experienced before. It felt as though the voice had to power to unmake him as well as create him anew. It was a voice to fear. And it was a voice to serve. Right unto death.

And beyond.

The woman came closer until her lips pressed onto his. They were cold, as was the tongue pushing inside of his mouth. Cold yet moist. His body aglow, Merard drank hungrily. The last vestiges of rational though shed, he surrendered himself to the passion, awakened with a vengeance after untold years of suppression.

The woman's hand slid down his front, stopping at his crotch, grasping.

Those cold lips curved in a smile as her question found its answer.

Eyes closed and breathing heavily through his nose, Merard moved his mouth against hers as though a drowning man gasping for breath. He felt something sharp on his lips and then tasted blood, but this was but a faint notion at the edge of his fevered mind. The woman, by contrast, felt more or less detached and restrained, totally controlled and perfectly aware of what she was doing. This did not matter either.

Merard ground his pelvis against the hand, which in turn kept kneading his engorged flesh. The intensity of feeling, he knew, went beyond physical contact. He did not know what manner of sorcery this was, but he was sure it was the best he'd ever known.

The woman's lips then parted from his, and when he tried to go after them—like a baby bereft of mother's milk—her other hand grasped a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. He relented, like the adoring child submitting to his mother. Next her mouth was on his ear. Then below it. Cold tremors spread out down his neck, colliding with the hot ones radiating from between his legs. As the woman's mouth reached his neck, Merard felt as though what had been building up could not be contained much longer.

He had always been a man of unwavering self-control.

No more.

Then, right as he was about to surrender, he felt a sharp piercing pain on his neck. His eyes opened wide, vision shot with crimson, as an intense sensation from more than simple broken skin engulfed him, completely surmounting all else. A feeling of such force as to defy all description. Something powerful surging into him. Power itself. Divinity. Enormous pleasure, quite beyond what he had ever even envisioned before, let alone _felt_. It was creation. It was destruction. Simply put, it was . . . _ecstasy_!

And . . . more.

Pain.

Pain.

Sweet pain.

Sweet, _sweet_ pain!

 


	49. The Return

_You did it. You really did it._ Quintus slowly walked back and forth on the luxurious rug on the floor of his cabin. _You'll take the Emperor just what he wants…_ and more.

He stopped in the middle of the rug, where the sinuous curvilinear patterns came together in a central spiral. He looked down at his freshly polished calfskin boots sinking into the ruby-and-gold colored wool. A smile slowly spread across his face. He could feel his chafed lips cracking, but there was no pain. Even the small stinging of the Colovian brandy did not bother him in the least. He felt . . . good.

Yes, good. Sufficient enough a word, if a trifle of an understatement. In truth, a new kind of indefatigable confidence had awoken in him. Newfound fervor. A new kind of fire. New kind of power.

New kinds of . . . desires.

Outside, he could hear sailors prepare the _Alessia's Revenge_ for departure. Busy booted feet beating the decks, muffled cries and barked orders. Loyal men and women, all at his beck and call. It was a reassuring sound, and not least for the reason that it meant he would soon be out of this miserable place—for good this time.

Quintus took a sip. It was still early, but already his head was aglow with the brandy's pleasant buzz. He did not plan to sober up until they were back in the Imperial City. Probably not soon after, either. Perhaps never again.

He sighed at the thought of his protracted return. The anticipation . . . It had been so long. All too long. The last he'd laid eyes on those white circular walls had been a most bitter occasion. This time it would be different. Completely different.

Softly chuckling to himself, he emptied the glass and then set out for a refill. Despite the drink, there was no time to be wasted during the coming journey. He would need to prepare. He would have to devise a list of his worst enemies and their known associates; start drawing out a plan to separate those from the ones that he could make his allies, whom he could use. He would have to think how to best depose of the most dangerous ones in an effective manner before putting his attention on the more innocuous ones. He would have to decide on the proper course of revenge he would take upon them.

No punishment would be brutal enough as far as he was concerned.

There would be a different wind blowing in the Empire from now on. They would be seeing an unprecedented—

His thought was cut short while his hand was reaching for the flagon of brandy on his dresser. There, right beside the bottle, was a folded piece of paper he had not taken notice of before. Frowning, he set his glass down on the table, grabbed the paper and unfolded it. Then, staring at the note, his features smoothened.

The message therein was a blunt one. In the middle of the paper, the print of a hand with its fingers splayed out, made with either red paint or blood. Underneath, written in the same stuff, two words.

WE KNOW

Quintus stared at the piece of paper for a moment.

Then he distractedly crumbled it, tossing it over his shoulder.

Then proceeded to refill his glass.

Yes, plans. They would have to be good ones—not that he entertained doubts about his abilities. But this simply meant that he would have to devote the entirety of his incontestable talent to the task. These were beginnings of times the likes of which the Empire had yet to see. Judging from the perspective of the future, what unfolded from here would be remembered as the turning point. After which nothing would ever be the same again. And there was no one that could stand in his way. Not his enemies. And certainly not the Emperor—no, he'd be simple enough to deal with once the jittery wreck of a man finally got what he wanted.

_What the Emperor wants . . ._

Quintus' head turned in the direction of the rear window, where a wooden box lay on the floor. He absently lowered his glass back onto the dresser and walked over. He knelt beside the box and gently removed the lid. A faint smile came upon him. The looks on their faces as he'd made his one parting wish! Yes, a sackful of salt. A perfectly reasonable request. And no, don't be asking any questions. After all, he had a long sea journey ahead of him. And yes, a gentleman needed his secrets.

He reached into the box, brushed aside the fine white crystals until a protrusion came into view, above two hollows. An aquiline nose, eye sockets filled with salt.

What the Emperor wanted . . . A head in a box. And those features, why, they could be anyone's. A sufficient story he could easily come up with. A suitable name. Something that smacked of the disreputable. Of the lowlife.

Who had ever heard of a Sergeant Meric in the first place?

There was little faint about the smile that now split his features. Pleased with his own cleverness, with his cunning. _Yes, Chief Inspector—_

Quintus looked up from the box. Chief Inspector?

Nay. _High Chancellor_!

High Chancellor Lex—yes, he quite liked the sound of that.

He chuckled low in his throat. Let them try. Let them _try_ to get in his way this time!

A banging sound made him jump, and he swung his head to snarl at the door. He was just about to snap at whoever this was, but then remembered the box. He carefully placed the lid back on it before barking, "Yes, who is it? Come in!"

The door opened promptly, and behind it stood a stolid-faced young woman in Imperial light armor. "Sir, Sergeant Jarol, here to inform you that we are ready to embark, and to request whether there's anything you require afore we do. Sir."

"Yes, of course," said Quintus. "No, thank you I'm fine for now. As soon as we can get going the better. And rest assured I will make it known should I want for anything."

"Yes, sir!"

The woman was just about to close the door, when Quintus halted her. "Oh, just one small thing." Studying the woman, he said, "Send the boy".

With not a trace of hesitation or much in the way of anything in her comportment, her visage wrought iron, the woman barked, "Yes sir!" and then was gone.

Quintus slowly nodded at the closed door. Yes, he should get along with this one just fine.

He collected his glass off the dresser and went over to the window. He stared up at the Blue Palace. The memory of the broken wretch that was left of the great Ulfric Stormcloak, having spent decades in the ancient dank dungeon built somewhere within the hunk of rock supporting that tasteless palace. Just a couple short days ago, the memory would have made him shudder. Now it merely amused him. Oh, the price of foolish arrogance! Surely another lesson for him to take heed of. Not that he any longer had anything to worry about.

Still, it was obvious that he yet had much to learn. Of the power of cruelty.

He had time.

Power, of course, he already knew well. How to wield it. How to accomplish it. The disposition to rule, to exert his influence, his will, upon others, he had always known to be in his blood.

To rule, yes. Most fools never understood what it was that drove those seeking such a thing. To put it simply, a man who sought power did so to ensure that he could rule before he was himself ruled. To dominate before he was dominated. As simple as that. A law as artless and as immutable as any other found in nature.

Soon Quintus would be ruled by others no more. The anticipation of that was almost too much to bear. But he was patient, as he had been thus far.

The anticipation changed flavor, then, as he heard small hesitant footsteps nearing his door.

He started to undo his belt.

_Yes_ , he thought as he downed his drink, grinning with bared teeth at his reflection in the window. _Just try_ _and stop me._

* * *

"Whenever you're ready," Runa said, then sat down on a slab of rock and started cleaning underneath her fingernails with the tip of a dagger.

The horses were saddled and ready. Lucky and Frost stood side by side, the vapors of their hot breath mingling in the chill midmorning air. The former tried to nuzzle up to the latter, earning a little snap of teeth in a display of dominance, then backing off. Other than that, they appeared to be getting on nicely, which was more than could be said of their respective mistresses. The sun was beginning to crest the horizon. Embarking now, they would arrive at Winterhold by nightfall. The day had started cold with wind coming crisp down the mountains, and Ariela had to suppress a shiver.

She gently stroked Lucky's flank, then turned to regard the people crowding by the front door of Lakeview Manor, come to give their farewells. Her throat and nose were dry, and her eyes still felt swollen from last night's tears. She must have looked awful in the morning, but no one had made to comment. In fact, it seemed as though most had avoided making eye contact with her altogether. The exception had been, of course, Maren, who had treated her with all the same courtesy as before; and to some extent Erik, though Ariela had scarcely seen the man all morning.

Runa, by contrast, had said almost nothing to her—and vice versa. The Nord and the Cyrodiilian hadn't met eyes once; though, it seemed, not so much on account of grievances as of indignity. And quite rightly so, Ariela thought, though she couldn't muster any energy for feeling resentful.

Most of all, she felt tired—through and through.

Goodbyes were nowhere on the list of things she enjoyed, and that was especially true of the long variety. The memory of her parents, standing there on their front porch as she was off to the Scholar's Guild, was still fresh in her mind. Her mother's red, teary eyes and her awkward attempt at a brave smile, thwarted by her trembling lips . . . Those were the sort of moments Ariela could well live without.

This was different, of course. But even after a scant twenty-four hour period of knowing these people, she still felt a minor constriction in her throat. Her mother's flailing heart in her.

Erik, Roggvar, and Maren crowded up to her for their personalized adieus. The rest were content to hang back and simply make it known by their attendance that they had noted her fleeting visit and were now in turn noting its coming to an end. And it was only a couple times that she had nearly gotten them killed. Only one fatal casualty, too. Not a bad visitation at all, as far as such things went. Little wonder they were all smiling so easy.

Ariela swallowed back a tired, sardonic grin, and focused on the three people in front of her, warriors all after their own fashion.

First up was Roggvar. He looked fondly at her, and lowered a heavy, meaty hand on her shoulder. After minor hesitation, he gave a grunt, then enclosed the Scholar in a hearty embrace. His musty shirt smelled like stale sweat, and the man himself like fresh sweat, his breath of liquor. It didn't bother her much, though. She had more or less revised her view of the stout man, though it was undeniable that there had been a healthy measure of truth in her original assessment. But she supposed she'd come to regard him in the same way she might a big, friendly, boisterous lout of an uncle. She gave in to the engulfment of his hold, gingerly patting his broad back.

As Roggvar retreated, there was some emotion in his bloodshot eyes, though the redness was likely more due to drink. "Well, lass," he said. "You take care of yourself, now."

"I will," she replied with a smile. "You too." Roggvar gave her arm one more "gentle" pat, and gave way to Erik.

"Well," Erik started, with clear indication he had no follow-up.

"Guess this is it," Ariela said as cheerfully as she could feign, and with as careless a smile she was able to simulate. She felt the pull on the muscles of her face, but did not recognize the expression nor have any emotional connection to it.

Erik made a similar grunt to the one Roggvar had—perhaps a Nord warrior-ish communication of affection—and spread out his arms. Ariela gladly answered that embrace, though doing so felt like willingly giving something up.

Once the moment passed, she looked Erik in the eye, trying not to show sadness, trying not to feel it. She regarded the face starting to show its first faint wrinkles, especially about the eyes and the corners of his mouth. Erik liked to smile. She considered the fact that, in other circumstances, this was a man old enough to be her father. She thought of the differences in their ways of living, and the space that would fall between them, regardless if she ended up staying in Winterhold. Even that was a distance not likely oft crossed.

"Well, take care," Erik said, as if to confirm Ariela's suspicions. He smiled, though the corners of his eyes drooped just a hint.

"Yeah, you too." Ariela's reply came out as mostly a sigh.

_This is stupid_ , she thought. _Nothing but puppy love; I'll forget him within a week._ Somehow knowing that it wasn't the truth.

Then he was gone, giving way to the cordial Maren. The woman smiled a little wider than usual, her eyes twinkling with all the warmth of a mother sending off her only child. Was this the way she treated all her visitors, Ariela wondered; then remembered the pile of dead bandits from last night, cleared away by now and burned at the back of the house. The smell had been revolting, a bit like roasting pork.

The scrape on the woman's cheek had scabbed up. The cut did not appear to be have been too deep.

"Thank you so much for everything," Ariela said.

"Don't mention it. Remember what I said about Nord hospitality?"

Ariela was nodding. "Well, you weren't kidding about that." She hesitated. "Though, I obviously can't help feeling bad about . . ." She eyed Maren's hirelings in the background.

"Ah," Maren said. "Olav died the way he lived. They all know the dangers."

But that did not much help Ariela feel less guilty. She kept thinking of the way the lanky man had shown reluctance about the whole thing. "It's suicide," he'd said. How right he had been. And it was all because of her. If she'd only been wise enough to call the whole thing off, found a different way. Why did she let Runa talk them into it? If only—

"Ariela," Maren said firmly, as if catching the current of Ariela's thought. She took on a firm expression. "I know those thoughts. Like the backs of my own hands, in fact. You might as well declare them out loud." Her features softened. "But I also know they're no use. It's a hard lesson to learn, but among the first you encounter, and by far one of the most important ones."

Ariela nodded, but partly just so she didn't have to keep facing the issue.

Maren laid a hand on her shoulder. "Besides, it was my idea to send Ania and to risk relying on Madanach's sense of loyalty. I assume full responsibility for my own call. It's not on you."

Ariela had been staring at her tattered shoes, but now lifted her gaze. There was a point to what Maren was saying, and she felt a flicker of hope it might prove to ease her own conscience. Perhaps Olav's death was not her fault after all. Unlike the—

The image of the Forsworn's bashed-in face flashed in her mind, with all the minute details of gore intact. The emotions themselves repeated: the numb horror, the elation. Her stomach turned.

It was as if Maren was a mindreader, for her smiling lips curved downward a trifle. "Yeah, I know." She patted Ariela's shoulder. "I know."

It was all she said. All there was to say.

They hugged, then. An awfully familiar feeling, although they'd just met. As if something was shared between them; something they did not recognize but which bound them together nonetheless. Some people were like that, familiar in spite of being strangers. You met one, and it was almost as if you just picked up from where you had last left off.

_A strange phenomenon_ , she thought. _Has anyone done any research?_

Maren pulled back, her hands still resting on Ariela's shoulders. "Well, you'd better get going if you're to get there before dark." She turned her regard on Runa. "Are you sure you don't need anyone to accompany you? I could send Erik, for instance."

Ariela felt a surge emotion, a mix of hope and something like exasperation. She would have liked to spend more time with the man, but couldn't stand to prolong the inevitable any longer.

To her simultaneous relief and dismay, Runa shook her head. "Nah. Won't be necessary."

Maren nodded, as though it was precisely the answer she'd anticipated. There was something akin to pride in her eyes. "Alright, then." She gave Ariela one more look, then withdrew.

They mounted their horses. The feeling of Lucky all warm and muscular between her legs was growing increasingly familiar, like a new pair of breeches adjusting on her. Perhaps she could yet grow accustomed to the role of equestrian.

"Ready?" asked Runa, eyes on Ariela's chest rather than her eyes. The Scholar replied with a nod.

"Well, Runa," Maren said. She doubtless recognized the awkwardness between the two women, but wisely let them work it out among themselves. "Are we going to see you around again?"

Runa snorted. "As in, am I going to get myself killed before next time?"

"You know what I mean."

Runa shrugged. "Could be. Can't say for sure. The road twists in unpredictable ways."

Maren nodded, and Ariela thought she could well read the twofold sentiment therein: the acknowledgment of a familiar truth, mingling with the inescapable resignation of a mother knowing her child was a child of the world now; had been for a long time.

"The gold, Runa," reminded Roggvar, his brow creased.

"Yes, yes, Roggvar. I haven't forgotten." It was obvious, however, that she'd wished that the others had.

Roggvar chucked to himself, shaking his head. Muttering something under his breath.

Runa fixed her gaze on all the warriors. "We will, of course, have to wait for a proper translation; but as soon as we know better, I shall get back to you." The looks of disbelief among her audience went largely unheeded. Either way, Frost was already wheeling. "Best we go now," said Runa. She did, admittedly, seem a touch inconvenienced. Embarrassed, even.

_Nah_ , Ariela thought. _Not likely._

Then they were on their way, down the narrow path westward. Ariela stole one more look behind, and as Maren, Roggvar, and Erik saw her, they raised their hands for one more wave. She returned the motion, and the view of the Manor slowly disappeared behind the branches and boughs of evergreens. She faced forwards.

The ride down to Riverwood, through its main street with the bustle of the people in their daily chores, down the road past Whiterun and the Throat of the World, all the way until crossing the border of the Pale, went in utter silence. Runa was good at this, Ariela had to admit. She could have almost sworn that she was travelling all by herself. At times, as they rode abreast, she kept turning her head in the Nord's direction, but there wasn't a flicker of indication that the woman paid any mind to the attention sent her way. Not even any of that barely-perceptible flash of discomfort you could see in people's faces when they felt that they were being stared at, yet didn't want to show that they felt it. Ariela might as well have been invisible. Once again.

This was unfair— _unfair_! _She_ was the one who should be upset! Why was the wind of grievance always stolen from her? Somehow she always ended up being the one to break the silence, to make amends. There was something about that amorphous weight hovering above aggrieved silences, the weight that fell on her own chest. She could not stand it for long, and yearned for resolution. So she always ended up initiating the reconciliation.

But it was _so_ unfair!

And this time she felt as though she wouldn't even be able to find the right words. Any inspiration died before reaching her lips; and even if something did come to mind, her tongue somehow got in the way.

But she couldn't, wouldn't, let it last for any longer.

And so once they stopped for Runa to go and relieve herself behind some trees—uttering "gonna take a leak" in perfect simulacrum of soliloquy—Ariela dismounted. She stretched her legs, took a deep breath and let out a sigh of capitulation, then braced herself.

Runa clomped back, and was about to mount Frost.

"Runa."

The Nord turned, wearing an expression of pretend-surprise. "Oh, do I have your permission to speak now?"

Ariela pursed her lips. "That's unfair, and you know it."

"Do I? Am I to clarify from you what I may and may not _think_ now, too? Does the injunction not only pertain to, as you so aptly put it, 'my big stupid mouth'"?

"Don't do that!" Ariela snapped. "You were in the wrong, don't try to deny it!"

Ariela could see in the other woman's face that she wanted to keep her passive-aggressive facade, but there was also hesitation. Runa was not as dense as she liked to pretend, and had proven before to be able to recognize when she'd gone too far. She was clearly calculating whether she should yield or not.

Not yet, at any rate. "What did I do?" she demanded. "I was just trying to bring out into the open your show of bravery!"

"You were needlessly gloating over a despicable act of violence."

"Yours, mind you."

"You don't have to remind me!" Ariela said, with more force than she'd intended.

She took a steadying breath. Runa just stood there, hands on her hips, with all the indignation of a jilted wife. Was it all just an act?

"Look," Ariela said. "I don't want this to end on a bad note, that's all."

Runa nodded faintly, without softening her expression.

"I understand now that you probably didn't mean badly." Ariela looked the Nord as deep in her blue eyes as she could. "But it hurt my feelings, alright? I'm not used to . . . this kind of life. All the violence." She'd meant to influence the other woman by exaggerating her own vulnerability, but now started to well up with emotion again. Memories came flooding back. She swallowed hard, forcing down the feeling. "I killed a person." The last utterance came out as a whisper; and had it been a theatrical device, she reflected, it would have been hopelessly over the top, all too dramatic to be convincing.

Runa's hardness slowly thawed. Empathy kindled in her gaze, coming uncomfortably close to pity. Ariela tried to regain composure. "I will apologize for yelling at you, if you in turn will admit being out of line." She thought she was being as reasonable as was humanly possible.

Runa said nothing for a while; just stood there, chewing on her lower lip. Her hesitation seemed genuine. "Well," she finally said. "Suppose you do have a point." She sighed. "It's hard for me to remember sometimes how differently other people can take things."

"Yeah . . ." said Ariela, still waiting.

"And, well . . . I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn't mean to."

Ariela nodded, satisfied. "I accept your apology. And I, in turn, am sorry that I yelled at you. Perhaps I overreacted a bit."

Runa mirrored the nod. "No hard feelings."

Ariela shook her head. "No."

For a while, neither seemed to have anything to say. Runa even went to the length of digging at the gravel with the tip of her boot.

"Well," Ariela said finally. "I'm glad that's done with."

Another stretch of silent discomfort.

"My mouth _is_ sort of big," Runa admitted.

Ariela smiled. "And stupid."

Runa regarded the small scholar for a few seconds. Then she snorted. They both had a little chuckle, the atmosphere shedding the bulk of its weight.

Runa stuck out her hand. "Friends, then?"

Ariela grasped the hand, smiling. "Frie—"

She was cut short by Runa, who drew the Scholar into an embrace. Runa then pressed her lips against Ariela's, closing her eyes.

For an instant, Ariela was too stupefied to do anything. She just stared into the now all-too-close features of the Nord with her eyes wide. The woman's lips moved against hers, which themselves remained unresponsive.

She roused then, and tore herself clear off the larger woman's amorous foray. Without deliberation, she gave her mouth a fervent wipe with the back of her hand, even spat on the ground a couple times. "What'd you do _that_ for?"

Runa shrugged, smirking. "You really are quite cute when you're mad, you know."

For a stunned moment, Ariela stared at Runa openmouthed. Then, quite despite herself, she burst out laughing. She laughed hard, completely out of proportion with the situation, her eyes tearing up. She laughed until she felt she might start sobbing, at the undefinable threshold between deep joy and inconsolable sorrow. The intensity was the same, just a neutral force of emotion; and for a second, those two supposedly opposite feelings were hanging in the balance.

With the power of her rational mind, she finally pulled herself out of the emotive maelstrom, getting her feet back on the solid ground of reason. She groaned into the hands cupping her face. "Oh, Runa. What am I going to do with you?"

The Nord shrugged. "Most try to either kill me or sleep with me. Often both."

Killing and sex. Of course. However, neither option was at the top of Ariela's list. Though the former had admittedly crossed her mind. She knew now that she _could_ do it.

With dismay, then, she realized she'd done the first before coming even close to the latter. Somehow that was the saddest thought she could imagine. She had to push it away with violent determination.

Violence, yes she was getting the hang of that.

"I think he liked you," Runa said abruptly.

Erik. A picture of the kindly man appeared in her mind. The friendly smile, the strong body.

A warm tingle in the bottom of her stomach.

But she pushed it away. Some things were just not meant to be. "I don't want to talk about it."

Runa nodded. "Got it." If she pitied Ariela, she was nice enough to conceal it.

For the rest of their trip, they shared some words, but neither was in the right mind space to get terribly animated by one subject matter or another. No serious conversations ignited, and instead their exchange was mostly limited to one perfunctory, general comment here and another there.

And—which sure was nice in its own right—this time around, they managed to avoid any inconvenient run-ins with unsavory types. For this, Ariela gave a brief prayer of thanks to Julianos; not for being afraid of violation, but rather for avoiding having to witness any more bloodshed. She felt—was convinced—that she'd had her share of that. A lifetime would have been too soon for another one.

_You are weak!_ The thought rang in her mind so clear and distinct that she found herself glancing about. But it had been her own thought—a gloating, venomous voice inside of her, so cold and malevolent it gave her a shiver.

Or perhaps that shiver was simply the air having gotten colder and colder even since entering the Pale. The weather had been clear, but now it had started to snow.

Ariela closed her eyes. She felt so tired. And so burdened. Was she now losing her mind as well?

She contrived to calm herself down for the remainder of their journey; mostly by regurgitating things she'd learned during her years of intense study. Classificatory systems for known creatures, plants, geological formations. She examined the vegetation around, checking if she could recognize each individual plant she saw. Turned out she could, though most of them slowly getting buried under the billowing blanket of white made her job all the easier.

She recalled all that she'd read about the Daedra, all that was known about them—then found herself overwhelmed by how little that really was. She meditated on the different theories pertaining to the exact nature of magic, and that of creation, of Aurbis itself. The coming of existence. The interrelationship of Aetherius, Mundus, Oblivion, and the Void. Of Anu and Padomay: order and stasis, chaos and change. And the supposed "treachery" of Lorkhan, to which she and everyone she had seen or heard of owed their very existence.

Many answers—yet many more questions.

It was nearly manic, but it kept her functional, from sinking into the depths of depression and horror. Particularly horror.

And it worked. For now, at the end of the road, she saw the imposing silhouette of the College come into view. She sighed deeply. They had made it. She instinctively felt at her bag, the book still intact. Her loot. She had triumphed.

An adventure successfully concluded.

The dark was gathering by the time they entered the College premises. This time there was no one there to question them upon their arrival. Some looks were given, but it was either that their mission was generally known of—and doubtless the sight of Runa set them apart from regular applicants—or then most of the people there simply weren't terribly concerned about the presence of strangers. Neither was there anyone to greet them as they entered the building. They walked all the way to the library without being accosted.

Urag gro-Shub, as before, was behind his desk. He sat with his brow wrinkled over some book, so concentrated he bore no sign of having noticed their arrival. They walked up to the desk, and before Ariela could open her mouth, Runa slammed her hand on it. Urag jumped.

Runa grinned. "Hello, there, friend," she said. "Surprised to see us?"

"Fair-Shield!" Urag cried, the muscles of his jaw clenched in irritation. "Hey, wait. You're back!" He was visibly surprised. Then he frowned. "You chickened out, didn't you?"

"Ha! Shows what you know. Show him, kid."

Ariela reached into her bag and fished out the worn book. Urag received it wearing an expression of appreciation spiked with skepticism.

The Orc examined the book, forehead crunched, for a moment that seemed to stretch on for minutes. Then he looked up, looking regretful. "This isn't it," he said.

Ariela's heart lurched, and in the corner of her eye she saw the Nord beside her dropping her jaw. "Excuse me?"

Urag shook her head. "Sorry, this is the wrong book."

"But . . ." She felt the room around her spin. How could this be? All this trouble, lives put in danger, one lost! All for . . . what, _nothing_? Her heart beat furiously, and she felt short of breath. She actually thought that she might faint.

But then, Urag's grave expression cracked, a withheld snort escaping from his nose.

Ariela felt her eyes go wide. "What . . ."

He burst out laughing. "Ah, just pulling your leg!" he said. "This is precisely the book I ordered." He laughed again. "Oh, you should have seen your expression! Need a change of smallclothes by any chance?"

Ariela simply stared, mouth wide open. Runa, by contrast, was also laughing. "You were in on this?" Ariela demanded.

Runa forced herself to stop. "I swear I wasn't. Even I'm not that . . . sick." She gave the Orc an admonishing look, then snorted and burst into more laughs.

Ariela herself could feel a distant tingle of amusement. She certainly wasn't angered like she kind of felt like she should be. But she could only stare at the guffawing pair. Everything was suddenly far away.

"Well I'm glad that I could offer you entertainment," she said, at once half-wondering whose voice it was, for the warmth of the tone didn't at all correspond with the lack of emotion she was experiencing. It came from somewhere far away, as if a gauze, impenetrable in spite of its tenuity, fell between her body and her mind.

She turned, and started to walk out of the library.

"Hey," Urag called after her. "Don't get mad, it was just a jest."

Yes, jests—another one of those things that she felt she'd had enough of for a while. Her brother had always called her a bore with no sense of humor. Certainly there were worse things to be.

She turned her head, without stopping or slowing. "Don't worry," she said with deceptive nonchalance. "I just need to talk with Herennius." It was also true.

She kept walking.

"Don't mind her," she heard Runa say.

_Yes, don't mind me._

She walked up to the arch-mage's quarters and found Herennius in his bed, not any better nor worse than she'd last seen him. He seemed happy to see her, but complained of incessant tiredness, and, in truth, did not seem to be quite all there. He mumbled something about the "mind-numbing medicines" of the College, having obvious trouble staying awake. Ariela decided to let the man rest, and they agreed to talk more in-depth come the morrow.

As she sauntered down the tower's stairs, she suddenly felt the weight of the past couple days, hitting hard, as though a spell had been cast upon her. She went back to the library to find Urag gro-Shub and Runa lounging in comfy chairs. Urag had produced a bottle of some brown liquid, which made Runa's face twist upon draught. Before they noticed her coming, she turned on her heels, not feeling like making another excuse.

Outside, large sheets of snow were unhurriedly wafting down. The opaque sky looked as though its bottom had fallen off, and that the entire world would get flooded with its alabaster innards, till everything, living and not-living alike, was buried underneath a pure white, unsoiled quilt. Ariela might have welcomed that.

After some minutes of ambling aimlessly under the falling snow, walking to and fro about the College's courtyard, lost in thought, she was once again approached by the old man from last time. With some masked concern, he inquired whether Ariela was "quite all right". She had no answer for that, but gave him one anyway. "Yes," she said.

The man then accompanied her to the mages' quarters, where she took the same bed she'd slept in during her last visit, though to her the little door-less sleeping cells all looked exactly the same. When asked about the apparent lack of students present, just a few individual ones moseying about, the man explained that they were in the midst of an intense practice period, during which the bulk of the students embarked on intensive hands-on types of educational expeditions.

With half a mind, she wondered whether those left behind were deemed lousy students, but lacked any real enthusiasm to chase the matter further.

At long last, she got to change into her sleeping-clothes, and tucked herself underneath the thin down blanket. She was cold at first, but soon warmed up by her own body heat. After a few minutes of restive fidgeting, her mind not wanting to settle down, she finally caught the current of sleepiness and gave in to it.

If she'd enjoyed a few nights of relatively uneventful sleep, vivid dreams now came back with a vengeance. After an ambiguous start of mostly disjointed scenes of the less dramatic aspects of her adventures the past couple of days, the dreams soon grew dark and oppressive. A dead man with a bashed-in face, smiling at her through gore-stained, broken teeth. The fevered eyes of a deranged old man seeking to steal her soul. Dark, unnamed forces lurking behind the deceptively placid curtain of mundane existence.

She could see flashes of individual souls, shorn from their flesh, yet carrying certain distinguishing aspects of their pre-death qualities. Only fleeting impressions, granted, but still striking. A man whose soul had been wavering on the brink of light and dark for so long, finally succumbing to the latter. Another man, corrupt and venomous, driven over the ledge and into the abyss which he'd been contemplating all his life. A female, a distinctly bestial soul with a seemingly unamendable rift at its center, hurled from the fleshly plain towards an immensely powerful entity who understood her pain, being similarly broken. And yet another man, willful and fanatical, with a lifelong history of battle, embittered and driven mad after untold years of pain and suffering. Tortured and haunted. His pain soon coming to an end.

Then a cavalcade of images of cruelty, torture, and slaughter, accompanied by a ubiquitous sense of pleasure: dark gleeful satisfaction over the subjugation of the weak by the powerful, joy at their suffering. Joy in destruction. A living, breathing darkness spreading out ever more rapidly, hunting every living soul, seeking nothing less that the annihilation of all that was and all that ever had been.

And then Ariela, though she could not presently remember that name, found herself standing on a vast field riddled with dead, torn apart bodies, the turf slowly drinking up the pooling, miring rivers of blood. Somewhere in the background, hulking towers toppling to the ground one by one: brazen, red, white. Above her, the skies rapidly blackening, seething as though a dreadful storm, the like of which the world had never seen, were building right in front of her eyes. In the distant heights, the enormous forms of dragons sailed the gusting currents, and she thought that they looked lost. Misplaced, in great confusion and consternation. She realized that they were frightened. Even these wrathful mythical beings of antiquity knew fear! She found her very soul shaking in the face of such a realization.

Then everything melted away, revealing a vision of a massive heart, beset by ravenous demons wearing mortal faces. The faces were constantly shifting, taking in turn the aspect of every race imaginable, known or unknown. And they all shared the same hunger, huger for the lifeblood of that beating heart. Then that image was swallowed by an impenetrable, unresponsive yet living darkness. That darkness had a soul, she realized, a conscious will. It was full of intention, none of it good. And it was looking for something. It was looking for her! And the moment it discovered her . . . all would be lost. Forever.

Panicked, she thought of hiding, but there was nowhere she could go. No escape. For wherever she tried to flee, her mind would be there as well. And her mind was precisely wherein this monster hunted. It would be there, waiting. Patiently waiting.

Until it would feed. Drink deep her essence.

Just about to succumb to desperation, into despondent admission of defeat, she saw a single ray of light penetrate the dark. Then another. And yet another. Soon the oppressive presence was forced into retreat, powerless against this dawning light. The light came to slowly engulf her, as if to claim her as its own. She then felt—not saw, _felt_ —as though a great benevolent eye cast its gaze upon her. Observing her, without judgement. Observing—and protecting. The horror was swept aside, and her whole being was filled with light, with bliss. With untold comfort. For the moment, all the sorrow and terror of the world had been cast aside. There was vision, the kind barred from mortal eye. And there was love, the kind every soul deserved.

The rest of the night was peaceful, filled with the most complete sort of emptiness, the details of the earlier dreams fading from her mind. Yet the comfort of the last vision lingered, seeming to repair most if not all of the upset and trauma that she had experienced these past couple days. And in the morning, she felt well rested indeed.

Upon waking, then, feeling soft and free of care with scarcely a thought in her mind, Ariela promptly rose from bed and sought out the supping facilities. Then, after a hearty and filling breakfast, which she ate with good appetite, it was a time to bid farewell to her new friend.

They stood facing each other in the lobby of the mages' quarters, both clearly trying to figure out a way to make it easier.

"Well," Ariela said after a stretch uneasy silence. It seemed as though it was once again up to her to initiate. This time she didn't mind. "Guess there's no prolonging it.

"Guess not," said Runa.

Ariela tried going for playful. "So, how are you going to explain it to the others that the book had nothing at all to do with any hidden gold?" It didn't actually come out the least bit playful.

"Well, we don't know that yet. Maybe—"

"Runa," Ariela cut her off. "Don't." She shook her head. "Just don't."

Runa smiled at that; slightly embarrassed, like a child caught lying. She frowned, then, giving Ariela a pensive look.

"What is it?"

The woman hesitated. "I've a confession to make."

"Yeah?" Ariela braced herself.

"Yeah, ah, remember when I told you I'd never heard of that Rato fellow?"

"Yes . . ." Ramiianus Rato, the man responsible for abducting her upon her arrival in Skyrim.

"Well . . . I lied."

Ariela felt conflicted. She could not say which bothered her more at that moment: the fact that Runa had lied, or the subject matter which she'd lied about. "Why did you lie to me?" she asked, her voice devoid of acrimony.

"Believe it or not," replied Runa. "Out of purely unselfish reasons."

"Uh huh?"

"Yeah, I simply didn't want you to worry over nothing. It's just . . ."

"Just what, Runa," Ariela demanded. "Who _was_ he?"

Runa shrugged. "Just as it seemed: somebody involved in abducting and trafficking people. It's just that, well, I know he was well connected. In Skyrim with the Guild—"

"The Thieves Guild?"

"The same." Runa nodded. "And back in Cyrodiil, I know he had some friends in high positions. _Respectable_ positions, even."

An uncomfortable realization dawned within Ariela. She suddenly felt cold. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything," Runa said. "Just, well, you better keep your eyes open. Don't be too quick to trust everyone you meet."

Now Ariela started to feel budding panic. "Are you telling me that someone from the Scholar's Guild, or possibly even the College, could have ordered my abduction?"

"No!" Runa replied hastily, waving her hands about as if to chase Ariela's words away. "No, I'm not saying anything like that." She sighed. "Look, this is why I didn't say anything. It's probably nothing. Remember, not everything that happens is somehow tied to some sinister overarching plot. Just promise me that you'll be careful, alright? I talked to the Arch-Mage and convinced her to look into increasing the safety measures here, even add some armed guards of my choosing, which I will be sending here as soon as I can get it arranged. You will be alright, just pay a little attention."

Ariela reflected on that for some time. "Thank you," she said then. "About everything." Though she couldn't claim that she felt completely reassured, what with all the talk of adding guards and all.

Runa, with a wave of her hand, said, "Don't mention it. We had fun, did we not?"

"That's a rather liberal interpretation."

"Yeah, suppose it really does depend on your personal preferences." Runa winked an eye.

Ariela frowned. "Are you flirting with me?"

Runa shrugged, a kittenish smile on her. "I don't know. Maybe."

Ariela returned the smile. "Oddly, I think I'm gonna miss that."

"Well, I may well yet get back to you on that. Never stop trying, I always say."

Ariela shook her head. "In this case, I would."

She briefly reflected whether, if she ever were interested in going at it with another woman, it could be Runa.

Probably not.

"Well," she said, patting the sides of her legs. "Guess this is farewell."

"It's goodbye," said Runa.

"Fair enough."

Runa spread her arms, an invitation for a hug that Ariela gladly answered. They shared a hearty embrace, standing there for a good half-minute with their arms wrapped around each other. Ariela was so much shorter that her head lay comfortably on Runa's shoulder. The Nord smelled of sweat, though not pungently so. She felt strong, like a man.

Almost.

As they pulled apart, it dawned on Ariela that a tear was welling in her eye. Runa reached out a hand and wiped it off. "Let's not get over-emotional, now, shall we?"

Ariela grunted softly and drew a breath, snorting back some moisture. She shook her head. "Let's not." She felt a little silly.

"Stay out of trouble," said Runa.

"You too."

"I hate goodbyes," Runa confessed. Her eyes, even, were in danger of revealing emotion. She stood there for another while, then drew in a breath, lips compressed in a determinate fashion. "Well . . ." she said, gave Ariela's shoulder a good thump, then turned round on her heel and walked away.

Ariela looked after the woman as she advanced on the front door. Her posture upright, her gait determined. Runa did not look back, and Ariela reflected on what she'd said about never giving up. Was this the last she'd see of the eccentric Nord?

Like as not.

As Runa opened the door, the tall young girl from their previous visit entered. She eyed the departing woman with a distinct expression of bemusement. She then noticed Ariela standing there, and frowned. She stalked over to stand in front of the Scholar. "Oh, it's you" she said, and did not sound particularly enthusiastic about it.

Ariela nodded. "Yup, me again." The girl's sulky eyes were hesitant and assessing. "Look," Ariela said, before the moment grew any more inimical. "Perhaps we had a bit of a rocky start. But seem as it does that I'll likely be spending a longer period here, we might as well try and get along." The surly look on the girl's face took on a suggestion of uncertainty. The Scholar offered her hand. "I'm Ariela"

The girl stared at the hand for a few seconds, then, finally, her expression softened. A little conciliatory sigh escaped from between her lips, considerably mitigating the sternness of her bearing. She reached out and grasped Ariela's proffered hand.

"Ariadne," she said. "Welcome to the College of Winterhold."

 


	50. Epilogue: The Echoes

"Their cities . . ." The Prisoner's cracked lips moved, but there wasn't as much as a whisper. ". . . will burn down." He grinned. Another shiver wracked his broken body.

Soon . . . so soon now.

The dungeon with its mildewed walls and the layer upon layer of solid rock surrounding it meant very little to him anymore. They were but hazy reflections of illusion, hallucinations of the Mind. About to give way to the true reality just moments away from being born. And, in fact, the first of the contractions had already been felt. He would be there to bring about this birth. He would be the first to welcome this new word. He would ride the storm.

And he would make them rue the day they decided to stand against him! He would rise again to untold heights. _She_ had promised him as much.

The noise squeezing out through his parched throat would have chilled the strongest of hearts as the Prisoner cackled, fraught with anticipation.

A rumbling sound carried out from the direction of the stairs leading to the dungeon. Followed by the tap of footsteps. Four feet altogether.

The Prisoner closed his eyes and shifted his aching suspended arm, moved his chafed wrists about in their fetters. He'd been left here ever since that fool had visited. Suspended, his feeble legs mostly unable to sustain his weight. Trifling, as far as tortures went. Pain was a word that barely meant anything to him anymore. It had been his world for so long he knew nothing else. Beside, this mortal coil would not hinder him much longer. He cared nothing for it. He would get a new one, a better one. One no longer limited by the delusions of matter.

That fool! Such arrogance, coupled with such paltry spiritual capacity! The Prisoner had, according to the instructions that the Queen—the _true_ one!—had given him, sent the old idiot on his way. He would serve his purpose, no matter how trifling that most likely was. The fool evidently imagined himself important, but he was anything but. A pawn at best. One of those pathetic—

"I had forgotten," said a cool voice of barely concealed disdain, "what a miserable sight you were."

Smiling, he opened his eyes. There outside of his filthy cell stood Elisif the Fair, the so-called _protector_ of Skyrim. The mere though made him want to laugh out loud his scorn. As if she or anyone else could protect this land against what was coming . . . Against him!

Next to the supercilious woman stood the horrid Court Wizard, the weak-blooded vampire Sybille Stentor. Now for her he had some special plans indeed. Tit for tat, as it were . . . and more. Far, _far_ more!

"Well, now," the Prisoner said, though without a tongue his speech was more or less unintelligible, "If it isn't _Jarl_ Elisif. It's been a long while since you last showed you face down here, bitch."

He took pleasure in the faint flinch of ire his words inspired on the woman's supposedly beautiful countenance. He was fairly certain it was not because of the "bitch" part.

Elisif soon recovered, however, and the displeasure gave way to a ghost of a smile. "Not long enough, Ulfric."

"Oh, don't be so coy," he replied. "Seemed to me you enjoyed our times together well enough!"

She smiled in earnest, then. And just as soon, her face went utterly blank. "Well, all times must eventually come to an end." She gave something like a sigh. "I have come to inform you that I judge you to have served your sentence. You have duly paid for your crimes. You are to be . . . released. I just came here one last time, to say goodbye. So . . . goodbye."

While Elisif spoke, Sybille Stentor had opened the cell door and stepped inside and was now standing to his left. He did not deign to give the vile witch the time of day, and instead kept his eye cast on the impassive "High Queen," who said nothing more—her features cast in stone.

"Yes, Ulfric," said Sybille. "You've quite served your purpose here. And such a purpose, I might add! You have helped influence one man. Who will in turn influence another. And so it goes. It's unstoppable now." She grinned, as he finally turned his attention to her. "You have helped change history. You can take comfort in that, at least."

A small, albeit weak, twinge of foreboding gnawed at his insides, as he took in the wretched woman's gleeful expression. No, it simply was not possible. _She_ would protect him! She had promised.

He was not afraid.

"Surely you, of all people, understand," Stentor continued. "Some will always have to die so that others can go on living. So it has ever been, and so shall it ever be. And the grander the lives in need of feeding, that much greater the toll."

His gaze now fixed on the Court Wizard, the Prisoner saw out of the corner of his eye Elisif tuning on her heel and slowly walking away. His attention did not shift.

Sybille Stentor reached under her cloak to bring something out. She then took that something to shove it right in front of the Prisoner's widening eyes.

A skull. By all outward appearances, an old one. A rusty circlet with a blue precious gem still attached in the middle adorning the brow. Even for a skull, it looked particularly much as though it wore a grin.

There was an undeniable aura of power surrounding it. Something very familiar about it. Frightening, yet assuring.

"You know," Sybille said slowly, "there was one adage in particular that the Wolf Queen Potema was fond of. One she would often recite to me. It goes, ' _Each seat of power rests upon piles and piles of bones_.'"

In growing confusion, and downright fright, the Prisoner started at the skull. Those words . . . so familiar. Whispered to him . . . by the Voice.

_The Queen._

He turned to regard Sybille, who leaned right close to him. Pressed her mouth next to his ear.

She whispered, " _All bow before me_!"

Studying the Prisoner, she took a step back. Cold terror seized him from head to toe. The awful grin on Sybille Stentor's colorless features widened, even as dread power gathered around her.

 _It cannot be! She gave me her word! She_ promised _!_

_Help me! Help me now, I'm begging you! I am your servant! Your most loyal servant!_

In the distance, behind the arcane buzz slowly growing to fill the dungeon, there was an echo. Of distancing footsteps. And of something else.

Laughter.

_The Queen of Terror._

And then, although he had long thought himself unable to, the man once known as Ulfric Stormcloak screamed for the very final time.

The walls of the dungeon were the last to hear it.

* * *

**The end of Echoes of the Lost Voice. Thanks for reading!**


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